


Truth of the Matter, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-23
Updated: 2002-03-23
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: What really happened during and after the Season 8 finale.





	Truth of the Matter, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER

## THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER

#### by Josan

Title: THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER  
Author: Josan  
Feedback to:   
Author's Website:   
Date Archived: 03/23/02  
Category: Story     
Pairing: Skinner/Krycek         
Rating: NC-17  
Spoilers: Existence  
Permission to Archive:   
Series or Sequel/Prequel:   
Notes: NOTE 1: Thanks to Ganymede for the titles of the books (in the   
last part). You'll know them when you come across them!   
NOTE 2: Thanks too to Robin for the wine.   
NOTE 3: Ursula reminded me about the hats.   
NOTE 4: This story was originally posted to SkinnerKrycek unbetaed.   
NOTE 5: DW Chong did the beta.which is brave of her since she   
knows I won't follow all of her suggestions which a properly   
behaving writer would do. But then I'm not. But still she   
courageously takes me on. Thanks, DW. Which is why this story   
is dedicated to you.   
NOTE 6: This story is the result of several dares.   
Sigh.   
I spent a lifetime ignoring dares.now I find them irresistible.   
Dare 1: Someone commented that I had never written an obvious   
"unrequited love" story. So now I have.   
Sorta.   
Dare 2: Someone wondered if there could have been another   
explanation for the season finale. So now there is.   
Dare 3: Someone commented that, for a cold-blooded assassin,   
Alex seemed to cry a hell of a lot. So I gave him another opportunity   
to do so. (Well, more than one, in fact. ::snicker:: )   
Dare 4: Someone wondered where Skinner and Krycek could go to   
live openly yet safely. So I found them a place.   
Dare 5Will all of you please stop with the comments and   
wonders.Please! ::pathetic whimpered plea of a dare addict::   
  
Warnings:   
Lots of French in this story (unaccented as my system   
refuses to transmit them).but if you just read ahead a bit,   
you'll get the gist of what the conversations were about.   
Hey! Think about all the German in "Jane Eyre" (Charlotte   
Bronte showing off).and frankly, all I ever did was skip over   
it. Same thing works here, too. Besides, it's not really   
important. More for the flavour.  
Disclaimer: Many of the characters are the property of CC, Fox   
and 1013 who have and still are abusing them far worse than I   
ever have. The rest belong to moi.   
  
Summary: What really happened during and after the Season 8   
finale.

* * *

The Land Rover pulled up under one of the shady palm trees next to the part of the shore which passed for a landing strip on the small island. The driver got out, resettling the battered panama on his head. He crossed his arms, rested back against the side of the vehicle and waited, watching for the ancient Otter which should be making its weekly descent any time soon. If it were on schedule. Which, as he was discovering, was a concept rarely adhered to on this tiny island, one of a dozen that formed the Marquesas, French territory out here in the South Pacific. 

Walter Skinner stretched languorously, unknotting the kinks that had made their presence known on the drive down here from the house where he was staying. There were no real roads, only narrow paths of sorts through the island, paths that were a gamut of potholes, almost perpendicular drops, the thoroughfares of animals and people who were in no real hurry to get out of the way of one of the few vehicles here on the island. 

He was still getting used to the pattern of life that said something could be done as easily next week as it could be today. Besides, the island was so small that there was really no place one needed to get to in any kind of hurry. Its only contacts with the rest of the world were the weekly plane, a monthly boat and a couple of small satellite dishes which belonged to the medical clinic and to the man who owned the house he was staying in. 

Skinner made himself comfortable. Though the plane was due in fifteen minutes, he already knew from experience that it could be up to a day late. It all depended on the fly-worthiness of the plane and of the man piloting her. Soleil could probably fly anything sober, but he preferred his wine and an Otter that knew its own way around these islands. 

"See, I take mys 'ands off and the plane, 'e knows what to do." 

Skinner had been in no shape on the flight in to appreciate that, hands off, Soleil rummaging around in his satchel for a snack, the little plane did indeed seem to know that 'his' passengers were dependent on 'his' stability rather than the pilot's. Which had only added to the nightmare that had been his life at that time. 

Skinner removed his black-lensed sunglasses, so necessary for 'northern' eyes not accustomed to the brightness of the late morning glare off the blue water, rubbed a fist over both eyes. He'd been here five weeks and found, much to his surprise, his body, his mind slipping into the 'petit train de vie'. The first time he had come out to meet the plane, his body had been tensed, still fighting off the exhaustion brought on by the strains of those last days in D.C., with his reliving the nightmares of those last hours. 

Things were much better now. He was far more relaxed, even if his 'caretaker', Nourrice, still thought him too wound up. He slept better, had nothing much to do other than some small maintenance jobs he had set up for himself around the house, catching up on his reading, swimming in the warm blue waters, thinking about what those last days had really meant. 

In his mind, he had sectioned them off into reports. He was a methodical man. Five weeks here -- a lifetime here -- was not going to change that. By dividing them into manageable portions, he had found a way of examining each, seeing its relation to the others, and was dealing with it. He had numbered each nightmare sequentially. 

* * *

Nightmare 1 

He is sitting in his office when the side door opens. The one which Spender was so fond of using. He looks up, ready to snap at the person who has dared interrupt him, and Alex Krycek walks in. 

Fucking Alex Krycek. 

Looking like sin, all in browns rather than his usual black. Does he think the change in colour will soften people's reactions to him? 

What the hell do you want, Krycek? 

A meeting. We've got to get Scully and her baby into hiding. To keep them safe. Get Mulder and Doggett in here. 

And then the never-dying Billy Myles shows up. 

And while they play musical elevators with him...it, Mulder and Doggett entrust Scully to Krycek and Skinner is certain they will never see her again. 

But, for once, Krycek seems to be on their side and Scully is off somewhere only Reyes and Doggett know. 

And Skinner watches alongside Mulder as Billy is pushed off the top of Headquarters, falls into a garbage truck and is turned into hamburger. 

Except he isn't. 

* * *

Nightmare 2 

Alex Krycek is in his office, supposedly waiting for news. He suddenly stands up. 

Where do you think you're going, Krycek? 

And the next thing he knows, Billy Myles, a fully re-formed, recovered Billy Myles, is chasing both of them to the elevators. 

Except that, with time, Skinner has begun to wonder if Billy would have even paid the remotest amount of attention to him if he had just stayed behind his desk? That, maybe, he had not been the target of Billy's focus? That Alex Krycek had been? 

Still, he runs after Krycek, who is not keeping the elevator doors open for him. Does he know that Skinner has nothing to fear from Billy? 

But Skinner manages to force open the doors wide enough to slip in. Krycek looks at him as though irritated that Skinner has done this. He sighs. 

A hand comes tearing through the closed elevator doors and suddenly the pain in Skinner's head takes over his life. 

Skinner remembers, in patches, Krycek hauling him to his feet, getting him out of the elevator at the garage level. A car drive accompanied to the sound of Krycek angrily ordering him not to do anything stupid like die, not now, not when they are almost there and done. 

Then he remembers nothing. 

* * *

Nightmare 3 

Skinner wakes in the hospital, head pounding as though he has been hit with a steel bar. 

Thinking about it, he probably has been. 

The nurse explains that he's suffered a head injury, that he's needed twelve stitches to close up the wound. That she will be waking him throughout the night to check on him. 

To verify that his brain hasn't scrambled more than it now is. 

Except that one of the times he wakes, the nurse is not in the room. 

The person turns and Skinner gets a glance of the thing that Scully calls the Bounty Hunter. The alien he once saw in another hospital in Arizona. 

As there, the creature smiles at him, morphs into himself, head wound and all. 

Skinner tries to rise, to call out. The Bounty Hunter backhands him. Hard. 

When he wakes, he finds that he is in the trunk of some car, heading pounding far worse than before. 

He expects to die, if not in the trunk, then soon. 

* * *

Nightmare 4 

The trunk opens. 

Not the Bounty Hunter wearing his face. 

Alex Krycek. 

Skinner, you have to help me. 

He can barely focus and Krycek wants his help? 

Come on, Skinner, move. Something's gone wrong. They've decided you're expendable. 

His head hurts to the point where moving almost makes him pass out. 

Still, Krycek helps him out of the trunk, manages to get him to his feet and both of them to a car. 

This ride is no less of a nightmare. Krycek is less than calm. 

It crosses Skinner's mind to wonder why Alex Krycek is so worried about him. But it hurts too much to care. 

Again, all he remembers are patches. 

Krycek meeting with some people without faces, passing him on to them. One is wearing his face, Krycek's that is. As there have been two Skinners in his nightmares, now there are two Kryceks. 

And then, the real Krycek -- At least he thinks it is the real one. Is anyone real? -- touches his face in a caressing gesture, leans over and -- Is this part real or the product of some hallucination? -- kisses him, on the mouth. Gently, as though not to disturb him. 

Do as you're told, Skinner, and you'll see old age. 

And then the Other Krycek has him, carries him -- without effort -- to a waiting car with a driver who wears one of those faces no one remembers 

There is a plane. Several planes. 

The Driver gets him to the west coast, sees to it that his head no longer pains him, hands him documents and travel papers in the name of Francis Hendrick Walcott, a small satchel filled with cash in varying currencies then puts him on a plane for Hawaii. 

You must, insists the Driver in a robotic voice, get to your destination as quickly as possible but follow the route that has been planned. You will be advised when it is safe for you to return. Please, do not try to come back before then. If not for your own safety, then for the safety of those around you. Matters have changed. We don't know how or why, but they have. The child is important and must not be put at risk. 

* * *

Nightmare 5 

The trip is exhausting. One plane after another, no time to rest but on the flight itself, no food to eat but what is served. And though the Other Krcyek -- or was it the Driver? He's so tired he can't remember -- has healed his wound, his body is still shocked by what it has endured. 

He does think that if this is what travelling is like for Krycek -- because the travel plans are filled with flights backtracking, doing all that is possible to lose anyone following -- no wonder the man acts as though he's forever ready to take someone's head off. 

He arrives, finally, in Nuku Hiva, follows the directions to a dilapidated hangar hidden at the back of the airport, to find Soleil getting ready for his weekly flight. 

To a narrow beach nestled against the brilliant green reaches to the sky. 

To Skinner, the landing is a disaster begging to happen though Soleil barely seems to pay attention. 

As Skinner's prayers mingle with the delighted laughter of the pilot, the small plane jounces to a sudden stop on the pale sands. 

A middle-aged black man watches as an exhausted Skinner stumbles off the plane and looks around him. 

"Monsieur Walcott? Soleil m'a contacte de l'avion. Je suis le docteur Bellehumeur. On m'a demande de vous donner les directions pour la maison de Monsieur Magritte." 

"I'm sorry. I don't speak much French." 

"Ah. I speaks little English. Sorry aussi." He takes out a small pad from his shirt pocket, a fountain pen, sketches a map. "You goes here. Vous comprenez?" 

He points to the map, gestures to indicate that where they are is this point. He uses his finger to trace the map he has drawn. Adds a small child's version of a house to the end of his map, smiles at Skinner. "You goes here." 

"There?" Skinner drops the satchel with the money, the small bag containing the bare essentials needed to keep himself clean that he has acquired from different airports. He traces the map and the doctor -- he did get that part of the man's conversation -- smiles at him, nodding his head enthusiastically. 

There is a Land Rover standing in the shade of a palm tree just off to the side of what passes for a terminal on the island. Bellehumeur picks up Skinner's 'luggage', brings it over to the vehicle and tosses it in, onto the passenger seat. He hands 'Monsieur Walcott' a key ring with one key on it. 

Skinner looks at the key through blurry eyes and shrugs. He needs sleep, a shower, food. Maybe he will find all that at the end of the map, in the house which seems to be his final destination. He nods his understanding to the doctor, gets into the Land Rover. The man steps back, smiles, waves him on his way. 

He drives very, very slowly, very carefully. Not just because he knows he is too tired to respond properly, but because the condition of the 'road' demands it as well. And the direction is uphill almost all the way. Still, within forty minutes, he finds himself at the end of the road, in front of a small house that looks as though it has stepped out of a Somerset Maugham short story. 

That makes Skinner giggle. He hasn't thought of Maugham in years, not since he wrote the final exam for that half credit he had to take in Literature. Twentieth Century British Short Stories. 

He rests his head on the steering wheel and acknowledges that he is slap-happy. He drags his body out of the Land Rover, up the seven steps to the veranda, to the front door. He has no key for it, but that's all right: there is no lock. 

He opens the door, staggers in. He is aware of open space. 

A couch. 

He thinks he made it to the couch. 

* * *

The house was composed of a large room the length of the structure which was divided by its furniture into an eating area and the living room. The table and chairs were mahogany, a leftover from some previous era when the French travelled everywhere with their furniture. The other pieces in the room were rattan, with large, comfortable cushions made of brilliant colours and patterns in tones of dark greens and blues with touches of red. The couch where Skinner had spent his first night was more than long enough for a man of his length to stretch out comfortably. 

The kitchen area was outside, a lean-to attached to the house so that fire was not inside the structure. The island had no real fire department. For that reason, any fires, even cooking ones, were to be kept outside of all main structures. 

Skinner awoke that first morning to find himself being examined by a woman who shook her head at him, helped him to his feet and showed him the 'facilities'. Both of which, privy and shower, were outside, off the side door, to the back of the veranda. The water was sun-heated, the soap surprisingly an American brand, Ivory. 

When he'd wrapped the long unbleached linen towel around himself, the woman signalled him to come back in, pulled out a chair for him at the table and pointed to the variety of fresh fruits, the hot brioche that awaited him, the small pots of what proved to be butter and jams. The coffee she poured him was black, strong and jolted him back to life. 

When he finished eating, she joined him at the table. With a warm smile, she pointed to herself. "Nourrice." She gestured to him, silently asking. 

He caught himself from answering Skinner. "Ah. Walcott. Francis Walcott." 

Nourrice took the time to look him over carefully while he returned the favour. 

She was about five two, large, with skin the colour of a dark honey. Her hair was greying though her face could have been any age, from forty on up. She said something that Skinner couldn't follow. With a smile, she slowed her normal rate of speech as though talking to a child. "Monsieur Magritte?" 

Skinner shook his head. He had no idea who this Magritte was. Then his brain started functioning. Magritte must be the man who owned the house. Might he be the man who sent him here? Alex Krycek? 

"Magritte? Alex Magritte? A man with a missing arm?" Skinner made a slashing gesture with his hand between the shoulder and elbow of his left arm. 

She smiled at him, nodding her head enthusiastically as she repeated his gesture. Skinner felt irrationally happy at this communication between them. 

"Oui, Alexandre Magritte." And then he lost her again. 

She stopped talking, shrugged and got up. Patting him on the shoulder, she indicated that he should follow her. The tour of the house was short. She opened a door, pointed in. "Monsieur Magritte." She opened the other door, pointed in again. "Monsieur Walcott." 

So Skinner understood that this was to be his bedroom. He went in, looked around. The bed in this as well as in the other room were both leftovers from some previous era. He thought the one in Monsieur Magritte's, a four poster, probably dated from the turn of the century. This one was no more modern, just less fancy. No slim, elegant four poster for him. And something that would barely fit him. Europeans, a century ago, had been somewhat shorter than he was. 

Still -- he sat on the bed -- the mattress was good and hard. His back would appreciate it after making do with airplane seats for six days. 

There was a matching armoire, a side table and that was it. 

Nourrice had disappeared for a minute, now coming back into the room with a small pile of clothing. She must have gone through his bag of essentials because the two pairs of underwear he had worn and stashed in there were now washed. Under them, there was a pair of khaki shorts, a t-shirt. With a smile, she left him to dress. 

The shorts were a bit loose at the hips and the t-shirt was tight across his chest. He looked down at himself and decided that the original wearer might fit Krycek's body size. 

It was only when he went out to the other side of the veranda that the view hit him. Sky and water had no demarcation line, one flowed into the other. The house was situated high up on one of the cliffs he had been so certain Soleil was going to crash into when they had come in for that landing, surrounded by the brilliant green that existed only in tropical areas of the globe. He walked to the edge of the property, took a good look down, looked around. 

Dear god! He was in Eden! 

Nourrice, he finally understood, was the house's cook, maid and general boss. She was delighted when she found him, the second week after his arrival, fixing one of the steps with the box of basic tools he had found in one of the back huts at his side. After that, she would point things out to him that needed repair or maintenance of some kind. It seemed to Skinner that she was always surprised that he did so immediately, not having yet clued in to the rhythm of life on the island. 

Driving down to the village -- even now he held his breath often, counting on the stability of the Land Rover to negotiate the downhill slopes -- he had found the general store, le marche, that served as shopping centre and bought himself some clothes. Nothing much. Just more underwear, a pair of sandals for around the house, shorts and t-shirts that fit properly. His best find while rummaging around in the seemingly disorganized stacks was a pair of old-fashioned black sneakers, long gone from American culture since the arrival of joggers. 

Now Skinner checked his watch. The plane was already a half-hour late. A quick glance at the sky told him that it wouldn't be landing soon. 

He pushed his body off the Land Rover's side and leisurely strolled to the small hut that served as the terminal. 

"Bonjour, Jean-Guy." 

Jean-Guy looked up from the newspaper he was reading. "Ah, Monsieur Walcott. Bonjour." 

Like most of the residents on the island, Jean-Guy was a mixture of whatever people had found their way to this neck of the Polynesia, staying long enough to add their DNA to the local gene pool. Foreigners -- les Etrangers -- were easy to pick out due to the distinctness of their colouring. Le docteur Bellehumeur had come from Gabon and was an ebony while Skinner thought he might be the only caucasian on the island. Both men would stand out in a crowd of locals who were varying tones of a warm tan. 

Any stranger, thought Skinner, would be easily noticed. 

In the past five weeks, he had pulled out whatever French he had learnt to deal with his Quebec counterparts when he had been an agent assigned to New York. Not that they had insisted he speak the language: just enough to show that he was aware and respectful of their culture. They would smile at his hesitant attempts then switch into flawless English. Now he wished he had spent more time on the language though people here were very patient with his limited ability, helping him out with gestures and repeating terms they thought it was important he grasp. Jean-Guy had proven to be a lifesaver when he had unearthed an old French-English dictionary with the publication date of 1937 from somewhere in his uncle's 'marche', the general store. 

"Comment allez-vous, Jean-Guy?" 

"Tres bien, merci, Monsieur Walcott, et vous? 

"Tres bien, merci. Soleil est en retard aujourd'hui." 

Jean-Guy smiled, shrugged in that very French manner. He had become accustomed to Skinner's meeting every plane since his arrival. No one else bothered with Soleil's arrivals unless they were going off island with him and even then it had to be a dire emergency. The usual mode of travel between islands was by boat. Jean-Guy stooped and pulled out a bedraggled Time magazine from under the small counter. Skinner took it with a smile and a nod. They both knew that he had used up his small talk, not that there was much need for more. 

Jean-Guy caught up on the news a three-month old Le Monde brought to the island, Skinner read about Ronald Reagan's run at a second term in office. 

They both looked skyward at the sound of an engine. Skinner handed back the magazine and Jean-Guy put it away for Skinner's next visit. 

Outside, they shaded their eyes to watch as Soleil avoided the high cliffs and made a perfect landing on a stretch of land that only he dared use. In the time since Skinner had arrived, only one other plane had visited and it had easily landed at sea in the small harbour, dropping off some needed supplies. There had been medicines for the clinic, canned goods and merchandise for the 'marche', parts that had been ordered to keep certain machinery on the island running. 

Four times a year, a supply ship pulled into the harbour and unloaded larger items, refilled the two large gas tanks that supplied power for the four vehicles on the island, the assorted generators, refilled another with kerosene. 

Today, as the plane landed, both men could make out that it carried more than its pilot aboard. 

Skinner watched as a young woman jumped to the sandy ground, pulled out after her several pieces of luggage, cardboard boxes secured with lots of cord. She looked around, smiled at Jean-Guy who came up to help her. Bellehumeur had been expecting his niece to join him, a nurse who had had enough of the 'troubles' back home in the Congo. This had to be her, thought Skinner as he fingered the rim of his panama, saluting her as she walked by. 

Soleil was next out, with his bags of mail, smiling at Skinner, exchanging a nod with him as he strolled to the hut. 

There was another passenger. Skinner could see the outline of a head in one of the windows. The person moved and slowly found his way out of the plane. He dropped a knapsack onto the ground, a leather jacket on top of that before looking around. 

Skinner couldn't tell what the man's reaction was on seeing him, his eyes were hidden behind the standard sunglasses, his face shaded by a battered baseball cap, but somehow Skinner knew that his meeting the plane was a surprise. 

He moved first, casually making his way up to the man who was standing very still. He stooped, picked up the jacket and the knapsack. This close up, he could easily see the man had arrived in the same state he had: exhausted, barely aware. 

He gave the man a small push towards the Land Rover to get him started. 

"Come on, Krycek. Your bed is made and waiting for you." He sniffed, his mouth pursing. "And the shower as well. We'll talk when you've had time to become coherent." 

* * *

One of the bedrooms off the main room contained a now washed, sleeping Alex Krycek. 

Nourrice smiled at Skinner as she set food on the table. He indicated that Krycek was still sleeping and she grinned, nodding her understanding. As none of it would spoil in the next few hours, she waved and went home to her family. 

Skinner returned to the book he was reading. He had found an interesting library in Krycek's room when he'd decided to check it out. 

This room had a roll-top desk in one corner and one wall of shelving, tightly packed with a variety of books on a variety of subjects in a variety of languages. Either another acquisition from a previous owner or a reflection of the man whose room this was. 

If the latter, the number of French books indicated that Krycek probably had no trouble communicating with the population. There were fairly recent British publications mixed in with American thrillers, Russian language books. Skinner recognized Carlos Fuentes in the original Spanish, as well as several by an Arturo Perez-Reverte. 

In English, there was a smattering of poetry and the classics though the majority seemed to be history and politics, some older, many from the last couple of years or so. There was one book on chess by Anatoliy Karpov, another by Boris Spassky, both in Russian. 

An exploration of the desk had proved more interesting yet. He had pulled up the roll-top and found a short-wave radio, a small TV/VCR unit. 

Which had led to the discovery of the satellite dish which was hidden in the other small hut in the back of the house, along with a generator. Neither of them in use. 

Skinner ate supper, checked the wick on the propane lantern that he lit and hung from its hook. He was deep in the tactics of Robert E. Lee when the bedroom door opened and an almost naked Krycek stood there, wearing only a clean pair of the tight boxers he favoured. 

The two men looked at each other, not saying anything. After a minute or so, Skinner closed his book, placed it on the table by his chair. He stood up. "Nourrice left something for you to eat. By the looks of you, it's a habit you might like to get reacquainted with." 

Skinner uncovered the fresh fruit, the cheeses, the small rolls that Nourrice had made just that afternoon while Krycek had been sleeping. Since he hadn't seen them before, Skinner assumed they were a favourite of Krycek's. 

The man hadn't moved from the doorway. Skinner poured a glass of a fruity mixture that was both tart and sweet, placed it at the setting that still hadn't been used. He poured himself a glass and took a chair, across the table from Krycek's. 

"Come on, Krycek. I think you know how Nourrice will react if you don't do justice to her food." He sat back in his chair, watched as Krycek made up his mind to join him. 

Skinner could actually tell the moment Krycek's appetite kicked in. When his tired body realized that this was proper nutrition, not yet another plastic airplane meal. And watching him, Skinner finally clued in that the fact Nourrice presented the food in bite-sized pieces was probably not a local way of eating, but the way she saw to it that 'Monsieur Magritte' could eat with ease. 

And if anything, 'Monsieur Magritte' was in dire need of meals. Skinner thought he could easily count Krycek's ribs. His collarbone pushed against the skin of his throat. His own trip here had taken six days: Skinner wondered how many it had taken Krycek. One thing for certain, from the condition of his stump, the prosthesis had not been removed for some time. The end of it had been painful to look at. Nourrice had waited until Krycek was sound asleep on his bed to cover the blistered and raw end with an antibiotic cream and a light bandaging. 

Krycek finally ate his fill and pushed the plate away from him. He finished the juice, gulping down the entire glass at one go. "Did she leave any coffee?" 

"Hmmm?" Skinner found himself ridiculously pleased at the sight of a familiar face, with being able to communicate with someone in complete sentences. "Oh, coffee. No. Didn't think you wanted anything that would keep you awake. You look as though you could use another good eight hours' sleep, Krycek." 

"If you don't mind, Magritte or Alex, but not Krycek. There is no Alex Krycek any more." 

Skinner nodded. "Alex then. I don't think that Magritte is going to slip out of my mouth easily when I look at you." 

Krycek's mouth tightened. He shrugged, a one shoulder version of the local gesture. He stood up, turned to go out. 

"Where are you off to? _Alex_." 

Krycek stopped, his back to Skinner. "To see if she left some coffee ready to be put on for breakfast. I'll need it to stay awake for your questions." 

Skinner got up from the table. "They can wait." 

Krycek looked over his shoulder, eyebrow quirked. 

"Neither of us is going anywhere. Not until Soleil finds his way back here. I just have a couple of quick questions, the rest can wait." 

Krycek took a deep breath, nodded. He dropped onto one end of the couch, slouched, stretching his legs out. "Let's hope the answers are as quick as the questions, Sk... What name did they give you? I'm assuming that you were provided with papers in another name?" 

Skinner nodded. "Francis Walcott. Walt to my friends." 

Krycek tried the name out in English, then in French. His accent, even on so little, told Skinner enough. 

"You didn't know?" 

Krycek shrugged. "There were other things I needed to attend to right then. They said they'd take care of you. So, what other questions do you have, _Walcott_?" 

"Use 'Walt'. That way you won't make a mistake." Then Skinner slipped into AD mode, his tone clipped. "Is Dana Scully all right?" 

"Yes." 

Skinner raised an eyebrow. Krycek just looked at him, face blank of expression. So, thought Skinner, quick questions, quick answers. 

"Did she have the baby?" 

"Yes." 

Skinner waited. 

"A boy. A _human_ boy." 

Skinner nodded. 

"Is Mulder okay?" 

Krycek's mouth twitched once. "Yeah, _Mulder_ is alive and well and by now probably living with Scully." 

He had kept his tone even, but Skinner had caught the control it had taken to do so. "Is the child his?" 

Krycek looked around the room, as though checking to see if there had been changes made in his absence. Again Skinner waited him out. Krycek stared at the lantern over their heads. "Let's just say they share the same DNA." 

Skinner wanted to ask if Spender also shared that DNA but decided this was not the time. 

Krycek yawned, nearly dislocating his jaw in the process. 

"Doggett?" 

"He's taking over the X-Files. Assigned himself Reyes." 

"Kersh must love that." 

"Kersh," said Krycek, sitting up, "is under investigation. Seems there are a few incongruities in his department." He stood up. "Can the rest wait until tomorrow?" 

"What happened to Alex Krycek that he's no more?" 

Krycek stopped in the doorway to his room. "Alex Krycek is dead. Killed in the parking garage of FBI Headquarters." 

Something in Krycek's tone made the hair on Skinner's neck rise. He stood up. "Who killed him?" 

Krycek looked over his shoulder as he walked into his bedroom. "Walter Skinner did. Two shots to the right arm, a third between the eyes." 

And he closed the door on Skinner's muttered "Fuck!" 

* * *

Alex had been up for some time when Walter came out of his room the next morning. They just nodded to each other as Nourrice served Walter his coffee while he helped himself to the food she had set up for their morning meal. 

He hadn't been wrong. Krycek... No, Alex. Alex spoke French with ease and fluency. Nourrice was delighted to have him back, worried about his thinness and insistent that he eat often. To that purpose, she was kept bringing him small dishes of one kind or another, all obviously favourites, throughout the day. 

"She says that you're very handy with tools. That you've been busy fixing things up around the place." His tone was almost accusing, as though he suspected ulterior motives. 

Walter shrugged: the habit was catching. "I needed something to do. It was just something that kept me busy. That's all." 

Alex grunted, "Thanks." 

Nourrice came out of Walter's room, added his sheets, some clothing to the pile that he guessed were the clothes Krycek...shit! Alex. He had to remember that. Alex. The clothes that _Alex_ had had in his knapsack. She spoke in her liquid tones to _Alex_ who nodded, smiling at her. 

"Does she get paid to do that?" Walter watched as the woman dumped the laundry in a small cart and pushed it on its way. 

Alex's face suddenly wore that cocky smirk that always made Walter want to knock it off, hard. "Does she get paid?" Alex sat back in the chair. "Is that your way of asking if she's my slave? That's the kind of person Alex Krycek is, right? Or maybe I'm blackmailing her into looking after me? Hey! She could be my girlfriend. Even my mother. I understand that women like looking after their men. It's sort of expected, non?" 

Walter carefully examined the man who seemed to be goading him into a fight. The lips were tight, the eyes dark. Last night, Alex had explained that Krycek had been shot by Walter Skinner. They both knew that Alex Krycek wasn't dead and that Walter hadn't been in the right place to have shot him. 

Walter shook his head. Time for some serious questions and answers, but first: "No. I don't mean that. I was just wondering if I should have used some of that money to pay her salary or something. As for the rest of it, Alex Krycek was many things but he wouldn't have enslaved anyone. Not even at his worst." 

Alex stared out the open window. Long minutes passed while he saw something only he could see. "Don't bet the farm on that," he whispered. Then he looked at the man waiting for him. He stood up. "No. She gets paid to keep an eye on the place and on me the rare few times I've made it here. Maybe not that much by American standards, but richly for the island." 

He started for the outside. "You'll have to come with me. It's easier to get the generator going with two arms." 

Walter followed, holding on to his questions. 

The generator started, reluctantly. Needed some tuning up, thought Walter. His next project. 

He followed Alex into his bedroom, watched as he rummaged around in his knapsack for a video cassette. At his gesture, Walter found the plug for the extension cord that snaked its way into the room from the generator hut, connected the small TV unit to it. He noticed there was now a slim black laptop computer lying in front of the unit. 

Alex pointed to the chair from the desk, made himself comfortable on his bed, in such a way that he could keep an eye on the screen and on Walter's face. 

Walter waited while Alex palmed the remote, worked the controls that set the VCR into motion. 

"It's a copy of the one from the garage at FBI Headquarters. It's not been doctored. You'll have to trust me on that." 

Walter nodded, turned and watched as he executed a man who had could have easily been cuffed. While Fox Mulder watched...and did nothing to stop him. 

"You just go. I'll get him." 

And watched Mulder drive away, 'Skinner' walk away from the corpse of the man who had bled red and who was sitting here, watching him. 

The tape turned from image to staticky snow. 

"Want to see it again?" 

Walter swallowed, shook his head, more bothered by what he had seen than he would care to admit. "I take it Mulder found her." 

"Yeah. Just after the kid was born. Whatever the reason the Replicants wanted him, it seemed they didn't once he had been born." 

Walter continued staring at the still snowy screen. He knew he hadn't been the one to pull the trigger, but the actions, the eyes of the Walter Skinner who had horrified him. 

"Alex...I..." He didn't know what to say. He tried again. "We both know that wasn't me pulling the trigger. That it was the Bounty Hunter." 

Alex made a sort of agreeing sound. "Unfortunately, the video shows you doing it. A copy miraculously appeared in the office of the Director. Even though it looks like Assistant Director Walter Skinner did it to save Special Agent Mulder's life, it is felt the first shot took care of that. Even the second. That the third was Assistant Director Skinner moving out of the realm of defense, into that of murder. 

"Special Agent Mulder's explanation for his not trying to stop you was that he didn't think you would go over the line. He feels, he's explained to Internal Investigations, that your...that Walter Skinner's behaviour may have had a lot to do with the recent recurrence of that blood ailment which incapacitated him a few years ago." 

"And what does Assistant Director Skinner have to say about all this?" Walter kept his voice merely curious. 

Alex moved off the bed, ejected the tape and turned off the TV. "Assistant Director Skinner has explained nothing since Assistant Director Skinner has disappeared." 

Somehow that didn't surprise Walter. "So I've skipped town." 

"No, actually you haven't. You have disappeared, but nothing you own has. Your accounts remain untouched. There have been no sightings of you. Your credit cards have shown no activity. It is feared that you were so overcome with remorse that you may have taken your own life. There are some who doubt this..." 

"Kersh?" Again only curious. 

"Among others. Last I heard, they didn't think the past weeks had been long enough. That eventually you'll show signs of life. Others think that your bones will one day be found in some gully somewhere." 

Walter shrugged. "So if the Bounty Hunter was me, who was you? I seem to remember from Mulder's reports that aliens bleed green. And I didn't think you were on the Replicants' side. And if I remember well, Replicants need host bodies to exist." 

Alex sat on the edge of the desk. "Replicants are easily made if you know how. Someone had used some of my DNA to produce one that looked like me. A trial run. We...the Rebels, that is...appropriated it, reprogrammed it. Not to regenerate among other things. Mulder was the one who was supposed to kill me." 

"How were you going to drive him to it? He hadn't done so in all the time you two have been at each other's throats." 

"He would have been made to think it was either me or Scully's child. It wasn't supposed to appear on camera." 

"And what about that bit about calling him 'brother'?" 

Alex shrugged again. "The Rebels have a hard time understanding why we humans kill each other. We're the same species. They understand the killing and elimination of other species, but the killing of their own kind is unknown among the Rebels. Their research has shown them that most of our killings are within family groups. I guess that was their take on it." 

"No wonder Mulder didn't move. He was probably stunned by that and the rest of that speech. What the hell was it all about?" 

Alex shrugged yet again, apparently uncaring of Mulder's motivation or of the Aliens' take on earthly quirks. Walter wondered if the gesture was part of his Alexandre Magritte persona. 

"What happened to your 'body'?" 

"It was cremated the next day. Seems Doggett's orders were misunderstood. By the time someone clued in, Alex Krycek was powder." 

"How do you know all this?" 

Alex moved to leave the room. Walter put the chair back under the desk, left the room ahead of Alex. "The Replicants aren't the only ones who have people inside the FBI." 

* * *

Gradually, bit by bit, Walter dragged more information out of his host. 

That the child had been named William. 

"Makes sense. Her father's name." Walter thought for a moment. "Mulder's father was a William, wasn't he? Hand me that wrench." 

Alex shrugged, handed Walter the tool he needed to tune up the generator. 

"And it's Mulder's middle name as well." 

No reaction. 

"Poor kid," muttered Walter, sympathetic for the child barely born who was already laden down with past history. 

"Why is Kersh under investigation?" 

Alex sat, back against a tree, watching Walter give the generator a new coat of paint. "Because he's an asshole." 

Walter looked up from his painting. He cocked an eyebrow at Alex, the same way he had done at agents who were a little too loose with their mouths. 

Alex grimaced, sighed. He drew a leg up, wrapped his arm around it and rested his chin on his upraised knee. "Seems that some members of his department turned out to be Replicants. One in particular. Crane." 

Walter cocked his head as though examining his workmanship. He gave a soft whistle. "Crane! One of Kersh's favourite pets." And he even allowed himself to feel a hint of sympathy for Kersh: he knew what it was like -- he glanced at the man watching him -- to have an agent in his department who was not what he seemed to be. 

But only a hint. There were more important things to do right now, like decide whether he should add a little more paint to his brush for the next section of the generator. 

Nourrice came out with a tray of the small pastries that Alex seemed to be very fond of, more of the black coffee that she served in small cups. 

"What's Mulder going to do?" 

Alex shrugged, not really caring. 

"Is Scully going back to the X-Files when her maternity leave is up?" 

"Sorry," Alex said, not sounding it at all. "I have no idea what your two favourite agents are going to do. I'm dead, remember. I only hung around long enough to make sure that certain bits of information got out, that the Rebels were properly introduced to their new inside man..." 

"Inside man?" 

"Well, woman." 

"Ahhhh. Go on, you were saying?" 

"I was saying that if you want to keep an eye on them, you're going to have to find a way of doing it yourself without putting your life in jeopardy. Or mine. I think that's the least you could do, all things considered." 

Walter took a sip of the strong black coffee to give himself time to think. He looked over at Alex who was examining the plate of pastries and agreed, "The very least. I've never properly thanked you, have I, Alex?" 

Alex selected the pastry he wanted, examined it again carefully as though seeing it for the first time. "Thanked me for what?" 

"Well, let me see. For getting me to the hospital. For rescuing me from the Bounty Hunter. For saving my life. For allowing me to take your place, to use your get-away plans. The money in the satchel you gave me. For bringing me all this information which probably means that you hung around a little longer in a locale that was not safe for you to be in. Having to replace your plans and the money." 

"I owed you one." Alex opened his mouth, popped the pastry in. He chewed, savouring the mixture of honey and nuts baked in a fine sweet dough. 

Walter had been guessing at most of what he'd said. An educated guess, but he hadn't been 100% certain until now. He waited until Alex swallowed his mouthful. "How many days did you travel to get here so that you were sure no one was on your trail?" 

Alex ignored his question, started to get to his feet. Walter reached out and, for the first time since he'd arrived, touched Alex. He grabbed his leg and waited until the man sat down again. "How many days, Alex? It took me six to get here, following your original plan, a plan I doubt you used. How many did it take you?" 

"Eleven. Can I go now?" 

And with a short nod of his head, Walter released him. 

* * *

Alex spent the next few days not doing much of anything. He slept, ate the meals that Nourrice prepared for him, dozed on the couch, read, went to bed early. 

Walter wondered just how much sleep Alex had had over those days he had travelled to get here safely. He himself had slept on the planes, but then again, he hadn't been expecting anyone who came up to him to be his potential assassin. 

And now that he knew that Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner was wanted for questioning for the murder of one Alex Krycek, he needed time to absorb that, to think about the act and its consequences. 

Walter kept himself busy and out of Alex's way as much as possible. He assumed Alex had made plans for his 'retirement': he had none. And he was dependant on Alex not only for having saved his life but for money as well. He had turned over the satchel to Alex the day after his arrival along with an accounting of the money he had spent. 

Alex had seemed surprised with the amount of money left, more so when Walter had presented him with the accounting. He had shrugged. 

That was beginning to irritate Walter. Those shrugs meant nothing and everything and he hadn't been around the shrugging culture long enough to decipher its nuances. 

If he asked Alex about the situation, he got a shrug. When he wondered if he should look for somewhere else to stay, he got a shrug. If he asked if Alex wanted coffee, tea or juice, another shrug. If he needed something for a repair to the house and asked Alex where to get it, he got a shrug. He also had the Land Rover key tossed his way, but that too was accompanied with a shrug. 

So, unless there was a need for the vehicle in order to get supplies up to the house, Walter began walking to get away from Alex's shrugs. 

Walter liked walking to the village. He always asked Nourrice if she wanted anything either for the house or herself. Between the two of them, they had developed enough of a communication line that each could get the gist of the other's conversation. Once more Alex only shrugged when he was asked if he needed something. Walter would help himself to French francs out of the pot that Nourrice indicated was for house supplies, pull on the battered panama that he had found in one of the back huts and appropriated for his use, and off he would go. 

Jean-Guy, who worked for his uncle when not manning the terminal, patiently waited while Walter explained in his slowly improving French what he needed this time. Jean-Guy then tried to determine if they had the item, where it might be if they did. There was the usual hunt for it which often turned up other things that were so fascinating that the original item could be completely forgotten. 

Which was how Walter and Jean-Guy, wandering off on a tangent, came across an unopened crate that had been long forgotten under a pile of boxes in a dusty corner. The box had no label, no indication of its contents. By now, Walter knew that curiosity had to be satisfied before anything else could be accomplished. That was fine with him because he was adapting to the rhythm of life here and, well, if the item he needed wasn't found today, there was always tomorrow. Wasn't like there was anything that he needed to do right away. 

The box was well and truly shut with the kind of nails that were bound and determined to stay attached. The two men took turns slowly worrying the nails away from the boards, careful not to damage the contents. 

"Oh! MY!" 

Walter's grin took over his face. 

Individually wrapped in oiled paper was a collection of tools which could well qualify as antiques. Except these had never been used. Carefully, the two men took out, unwrapped, oohed and ahhed over each tool then rewrapped it. To one side, wrapped in a piece of tarp, was a rolled folio of blue-prints, annotated in French. 

The men spread the papers out on another of the nearby boxes. "It's a ship. These are the plans for a sailing ship." 

"Un bateau a voile," smiled Jean-Guy. He stood up and grinned at Walter. "Pas d'interet," he said, waving the plans away with a gesture of his hand. "Trop vieux. Nous utilisons des bateaux modernes ces jours-cis." 

Walter didn't need to understand the words: Jean-Guy's disdain was quite clear. He rolled up the plans, gestured to himself. "Je peux?" 

"Vous voulez les plans? Pourqoui pas." He nodded his head and shrugged then, together, the men put the tools back into their crate. Walter helped restack the other boxes, paid for the nails he needed to finish some repairs to the huts and walked home. Now and then, along the way, he would unroll the plans and look at them. The terminology was beyond him and it took some thinking to realize the measurements were metric, but he was delighted to find that he could pretty much figure out what he was looking at. 

On the next visit to le marche, he brought Jean-Guy back to the crate, pointed to it and asked, "Combien?" 

Not an easy question to answer. Jean-Guy had no idea. There was no invoice anywhere. It would require a meeting with his uncle, the man who owned le marche. That meant a visit to the house next door where oncle Auguste held court. 

His age indicated that he had to be at least a couple of generations removed from Jean-Guy. He was white-haired, small, thin to the point of emaciation. He looked as though a breeze would blow him away. Of course, he had to see the crate for himself, but first he had to offer the American visitor some refreshments, as was customary. 

Once, Walter Skinner would have chaffed at the time and customs that had to be served before he could get an answer. Now, Walter smiled, joined the old man in a drink of the fruit juices that tasted unlike any juice he had ever drunk back in the States. There was a long involved conversation with Jean-Guy who smiled at Walter as he answered his 'oncle Gus'. Finally, the three made their way back to the store, to the back room. Again not quickly as the old man had to comment on many of the boxes that hindered their way to the crate. 

Finally, two hours after asking how much for the crate, Walter helped Jean-Guy uncover and open it to the gaze of the man whose sharp eyes had already determined that he had a buyer for the contents. 

No one spoke while oncle Gus sat on the edge of the crate, examined the contents, unwrapped one or two of the items. He looked his victim over. "Dites-lui 6,000 nouveau francs." 

Jean-Guy's eyes opened wide but his mouth remained shut. He knew Walter would not understand, so he wrote the amount on a piece of paper and handed it to him. 

Walter tried to convert the amount into American dollars, then realized the futility of the exercise. He had no money. Not really. He smiled at the two men, thanked them and, with a shrug, he put the paper into his pocket. 

* * *

"What's that?" 

Walter looked over at Alex who was just getting up. "Plans for a boat. I'm returning them." 

"To whom?" 

"Jean-Guy and oncle Auguste." 

Alex frowned as though he was having trouble understanding. 

"We found them in with a crate of tools. I was just looking at them." 

"I'm surprised the old goat didn't charge you for the privilege. He likes to get his money's worth." 

Walter nodded, finished rolling the plans back up in their tarp. "Alex?" 

"Hmmmm." 

"How much is 6,000 francs in American money?" 

"About $800. Why?" 

Walter ignored the question. He thought about the crate of tools. That was a fair price. Back in D.C., he would have paid much more for their modern equivalents. 

"Alex. Is there a way I can get to my money without... No, of course not. Forget about it." 

Alex dropped onto the couch. "Why do you need to get to your money?" 

Walter sat in the chair he now considered his. "To pay you back for the money I used to get here. To pay my share of the expenses while I stay here. To move on to wherever it is I can move on to, _when_ it's safe for me to move on." 

Alex didn't look impressed. "And?" 

"And," Walter sighed, "to give that 'old goat' as you call him 6,000 francs for a crate of tools that are worth far more than that." 

"I thought you had pretty much finished the jobs around the place." 

Walter said nothing, merely gestured to the plans. 

"I see. Bored already?" 

"Truth is, Alex, I'm not used to doing nothing. I need to have something to do." 

"There would be the cost of materials as well. One of the people in the village has a portable saw mill but you would have to pay for the lumber and other things." 

Walter shrugged, slouched in his chair. "As I said, forget about it." 

"And then," continued Alex as though Walter hadn't said anything, "there's the fact that the old goat is probably trying to shaft you on the price. Auguste spent the forties in France, where he learnt everything has a price. You'll ruin his fun if you accept the first price he tosses out." 

Walter said nothing, just looked at his house-mate, waiting to see where this was going. 

"There's no problem with money. None of this was bought with mine. None of our travel expenses were paid out of my pocket. You see, there were a few accounts that the authorities who confiscated Consortium resources didn't know about. I transferred them to the Cayman Islands, then to Papette. How much do you think you'll need? One million? Two? More?" 

Walter sat up straight. "Are you talking francs or dollars?" 

"Dollars, Walt. US currency. Accepted pretty much anywhere on the planet." 

"But...isn't that....what about ..." 

"Fuck, Walter, they owe it to us, don't you think? They were responsible for a lot of shit in both our lives. We thought that by eliminating those old men, the plans for colonialization would be put to an end. Little did we know...did they know...that our role in the their scheme of things was of no real importance. 

"The Consortium is all gone. Dead. Kaput. But the dispute over territory is still going on among the Aliens. Hell, they're even inventing new ones using our DNA. 

"So why shouldn't they pay for our 'retirement'? You want to keep busy by building a boat, hell, why not? But we have to play the game the way it's played here, or no one will have any respect for us. Let me throw some clothes on and we'll go have a little discussion with cher oncle Gus." 

They took the Land Rover. Walter drove while Alex sat looking around at the scenery from under the lip of his battered baseball cap. It was his first trip away from the house since his arrival, two weeks before. 

Alex was not wearing the prosthesis, as he hadn't since the day he had landed on the island. Probably something to do with the salt air, the humidity, the chaffing. He was dressed in khaki shorts that ended mid-thigh, a loose t-shirt whose sleeve covered his stump. He wore the sandals that were the common footwear. 

At le marche, people greeted Alex, holding some conversation with him while Walter stood patiently by, nodding his head when the speaker looked his way. Jean-Guy was pleased to see them, his smile growing when Alex mentioned 'oncle Gus'. 

There was a repeat of the previous day's trek next door, the polite conversation, the serving of refreshments -- coffee this time. And then Alex gestured to Walter in that lazy way which indicated this was an afterthought. 

Walter saw oncle Gus's eyes light up. Jean-Guy grinned, looked from his uncle to Alex, grinned even more when he looked at Walter. Walter found himself shrugging, which delighted JeanGuy. 

As they trekked back to the store and the crate in the back room Alex whispered to Walter, "Under no circumstances are you to butt in. Understood?" 

"Considering my fluency in the language..." 

"I don't care. I want your word." 

Walter looked at Alex, saw the light of battle in his eyes. For the first time since his arrival, Alex looked alert, awake. "My word." 

Jean-Guy and Walter cleared the boxes off the crate and then each picked a box and used it as a chair. Jean-Guy looked as though all he needed was a bowl of popcorn and he would be ready to be entertained. 

The next hour made Walter truly regret his lack of language. One by one, people who were in the area appeared, found themselves a box and sat down. It soon became apparent that each man had his own rooting section. 

Oncle Gus would say something and his supporters would nod happily. Alex would lazily counter and those on his side would grin. After a while, both groups seemed to merge. Good hits, no matter who made them, got general approval. 

From the little Alex had said, Walter had determined that he had visited his retirement get-away only rarely and then for short periods of time. Considering Nourrice's medical skills, Walter assumed that this was where Alex came to hide out if he was hurt. Still, he had made a place for himself. These people, he thought as he looked around at the delighted spectators, liked him. 

Walter turned his attention to the man arguing for a decent price for his tools. 

He was animated. 

Walter tried to remember the last time he had seen an animated Alex Krycek. He had to go back to Krycek's days as a new agent with the FBI, when Walter had stopped him in the hallway, to ask how things were going with his new partner. Practically everyone in the building had a stake in the pool to determine how long before the kid asked to be reassigned. 

"Very well, Assistant Director, thank you for asking." 

He might have thought that was a political answer except for the fact that the kid's green eyes were dancing with pleasure and self-satisfaction. Walter hadn't been able to stop a responding smile. "Really? And how have you managed to stop Special Agent Mulder from dumping you, Agent Krycek?" 

The kid's laughter had spilled out of his control. He'd dug into his pocket and pulled out a key chain with a couple of car keys. 

Walter's laughter had joined the kid's. 

Now Walter watched as Alex scored another point and Jean-Guy next to him groaned in commiseration with his uncle. 

Until the moment of betrayal, Walter had been certain that Mulder had finally found a partner worthy of him. With brains, flexibility, a sense of the ridiculous. Someone who would see Mulder's point and find a way of getting to it without antagonizing entire departments. Along with Scully to ground them, the three of them would have been a team to reckon with. For the right reasons. 

At that time, he too had noticed the kid. Eyes that glowed every time he caught a lead. The body in those awful suits, a body that, when stripped in the gym, had more than one set of eyes following it. Walter ought to know. His had been one of them. 

A body that had made him finally face the choices he had made in his life were not necessarily the right ones, not just for himself. Well, if in seven years he was declared officially dead, Sharon would receive the bulk of his estate from the will he had never gotten around to changing after their divorce. She deserved it for seventeen years of trying to understand what had been wrong when it had had nothing to do with her. 

With groans worthy of a dying tenor, oncle Gus shook hands with a grinning Alex. The two men left the back room, off to consolidate the haggling with a drink. "You might like to get your crate into the Land Rover, Walt. Oh, and you'll find rope under the back seat. Don't buy any here, the old goat will charge us triple for it just to get his own back." 

"How much did you pay for the tools, Alex?" 

They were on the trail home. Alex had had more than one glass of whatever oncle Gus had insisted be drunk to fix the final price. His head rested against the roll bar, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. "What?" 

"How much did you and the old goat finally agree to?" 

"Finally? The original invoice plus storage fees." 

"Which amounts to?" 

"300 francs for the invoice and another 3,200 for storage." 

Walter brought the jeep to a stop on a level part of the path. "The original invoice was for 300 francs?" 

"In new francs, not old ones." 

"Bu..but that's ...." 

"About forty dollars." Alex opened his eyes. 

"The _original_ invoice for all those tools was around forty dollars?" 

"Well, the invoice was for 1912, Walt. That was a hell of a lot of money in those days. The tools are German made. Imported. The cost of getting them here from France back then...." 

"Are you telling me that they've been there in the back of that store since 1912?" 

"Probably. Oncle Gus says that they were delivered here by mistake. Seems some missionary was expecting bibles and these arrived instead. He refused to pay Auguste Papa for them and so Auguste Papa confiscated them, stored them until such time that the missionary would pay for them. He never did. They shoved the crate to the back and forgot about it until you and Jean-Guy went foraging for something and came across it." 

"And oncle Gus remembers this?" 

"Hell, no, Walt. Be real. The man would have to be almost a hundred years old to have actually been there. He's only 82. No, he heard it from his father who told him to remember that he should never put his trust in missionaries. Have them put a down payment on anything they order." 

Walter gave a hoot and rested his head on the back of this seat. "Jesus! How the hell did you ever find this place, Alex?" 

"I screwed a travel agent once. Asked him for his opinion of the last place anyone would look for someone on the face of this earth and he mentioned these islands. Mind you, that was ten years ago, before the tourist cruisers decided to make Nuku Hiva a port of call. Still, this island is as safe a place as you can probably find." 

* * *

Walter decided that he needed to get use to the tools before he ventured into serious boat building. Though made of top caliber materials, these tools were all manual. Nothing electrical to help with torque or power. Only muscle power. 

Moreover, as the meticulous side of his character demanded, he had to make sure that he really understood what he was getting into. With the tools. With the plans. With the wood. 

To that end, he scaled down the plans simply by moving the metric comma one digit over to the left. Six metres became a manageable point six of a metre and Walter found himself working on a onetenth scale model of the boat the plans were to produce. 

As he grew more comfortable with the plans, more skillful with the tools, as his model boat took form, Alex drank. 

At first, Walter thought this was part of Alex's decompression ritual. In 'Nam, when they had hit the R &R portion of their tours, he and his buddies had hit the booze as hard as they had hit the night spots. It was, he reasoned, typical male behaviour and he didn't pay that much attention to it. 

Besides, Alex was a quiet drinker. He didn't rant. Didn't get boisterous, belligerent. Didn't get mean. He just sat in his chair on the veranda, watching Walter work away, not saying a word, just drinking. Until he fell asleep or night came. Then, if awake, he would walk stiffly into his bedroom, shut the door. 

At first, Walter tried to engage him in conversation but soon gave up as all he got in return were grunts or shrugs. After a couple of weeks, apart from "Good morning" or "Good night", Walter only addressed his house-mate if there was something he particularly needed to know. 

Soon after the purchase of the tools, Alex had handed Walter a thin pocket-sized booklet and some cheques. His new bank account, based in Papette, cheques accepted all over the Polynesia, and here in oncle Gus's marche. 

"The account is in American dollars. The bank will convert cheques made in any currency to American and withdraw accordingly. You just note the currency under the written amount. Oncle Gus will act as cashier for any cash you want. For a charge, of course." 

Walter had been stunned: the amount on the top line was a two followed by six zeros, a comma and two more. When he tried to broach the subject with Alex, all he got was yet another of those shrugs and a curt, "Drop it, Walt." 

So, now, he actually rarely needed to talk to Alex. And, once the word had gotten out about the tools and the plans, Jean-Guy always seemed to know what he needed when he went to hunt something down. Different grained sandpaper began appearing on the counter, nails were easier to find. Walter's vocabulary was growing more specialized. 

And Alex was drinking more heavily by the day. 

Walter finally clued in that this was not normal Alex behaviour when Nourrice began standing around, trying hard to get Alex to eat properly. The weight he had put on those first days after his arrival was sliding off his bones. And the more Alex drank, the more worried Nourrice looked. 

One night, with Alex passed out on the couch, Walter sat at the table, dictionary in hand, and wrote out a series of questions in what he hoped was the correct syntax. The next day, he handed the paper to Nourrice who read it quickly, looked up at him, relieved to understand that Alex's behaviour worried Walter as well. 

While Walter worked outside on his boat with Alex on the veranda slowly making his way through yet another bottle of scotch, Nourrice sat down and wrote out answers to Walter's questions in simple sentences. 

That night, with the help of his dictionary, Walter worked out that no, this was not normal behaviour for Monsieur Magritte; that yes, he had bought the place and come the first time after he had lost his arm; that the longest he had ever stayed before now was five weeks. 

She had added that she liked Alex, that all this made her sad. Was there nothing he could do about the situation? 

He tried. 

He got rid of all the liquor he could find only to have Alex walk down to the marche, return with a couple of kids carrying another supply. He tried talking to him, only to have Alex at first shrug him off then simply get up and go drink in his bedroom, door closed. 

Walter worried about the situation as he cut the planks of wood to the specified lengths, as he drilled holes, wrote down the messages to himself in the notebook he was keeping for that purpose. He knew that Alex Krycek could not have hit the booze this way while he was working and lived. He knew that Alex had the occasional nightmare -- Hell, so did he! Were those the reason for this behaviour? Maybe this was a reaction to the accumulation of a history with the Consortium and what Alex Krycek had done in its name? 

He discovered the reason quite by accident one night, as he helped a barely conscious Alex to his bed. He'd gotten the man onto the bed, covered him with a sheet and had verified that the bucket Nourrice had installed in the bedroom after the night Alex had vomited all over the floor was strategically placed. As he turned to go, his foot caught something just under the bed and sent it flying across the room. 

A shoebox that scattered its contents here and there. 

With a sigh, Walter bent to pick up what looked to be a photograph and froze in the act. He straightened, staring at the photo in his hand. Slowly, he picked up the pieces of paper that all but one turned out to be photos. 

Of himself. 

Photos of Walter Skinner in his Bureau clothes, at the scene of an investigation, walking across the square at Headquarters. One of him eating a hot dog he'd just bought from the street vendor. Several of him at the Vietnam Memorial. Some seemed to have been taken on weekends when he was dressed in casual clothing, those more revealing of the season the picture had been taken. There were even a dozen that had to have been taken the year the FBI had accepted a challenge from DoJ for a beach volleyball tournament for some charity. 

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Walter went through all the pictures, not understanding why Alex would have collected close to fifty shots of him. Then he opened the only piece of paper in the box that was not a photo. It was a letter, obviously never sent as he would have received it had it been. 

"Walter 

I'm sorry. This time the Old Man's orders were pretty specific. I was to kill you using the nanocytes. He's getting rather pissed that every time he puts the order out on you, that you never seem to die. 

I thought by now they would have gotten rid of him, but hell, he's back in favour and I don't have much choice. Even the Brit is beginning to worry about the Old Man's power base and just how deeply it goes. 

This was the best I could do. Killing you and then bringing you back. Orgel made a good test subject. And his notes are so convoluted that it will take even the Consortium's scientists years to decipher them. 

I'm sorry, too, for dragging it out. He had people watching me. He doesn't trust me for obvious reasons, but he needs me. Good assassins are not easy to find and he did have me specially trained. He doesn't like to lose on his investments. The IRS would have a field day with a list of his out of country accounts. 

Walter, take care. Try not to piss him off more than you have to. There's only so much I can do to keep you alive. 

Love 

Alex" 

Walter stared at the note and read it again and again, eyes holding over the 'love' every time he read the words. 

He folded the letter and placed it back in the box with the photos. He got to his feet, carried the box over to the bed and the man softly snoring. He looked at this man who, it now seemed, had saved his life more than this last time. He stooped, placed the box back under the bed and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

Instead of heading for his bed, Walter went out on the veranda, to the chairs on the scenic side, and sat, looking at the sky, the stars and put his mind on hold. 

It was an old trick he had developed when in the field. There were times where there was just too much information, most of it not pertinent. Then, he would sit somewhere quiet, purposefully not think about the situation and let his brain sort out the information into useful/not useful on its own, with no interference from him. Once, in high school, he had had a teacher exhort them to trust in their brains: it was smarter than they knew. 

Here, this night, staring at a half moon that added shadows and definition to the view, he purposefully did not think of the man who, it appeared, was in love with him. 

* * *

For the next few days, Walter did nothing different in his routine. He got up in the morning, showered, practised his improving French on Nourrice while he ate. After, he thanked her for breakfast, went out to work on his model. 

Alex came out later in the morning to take his usual chair on the veranda, started with coffee, moved on to the scotch. Nourrice occasionally came out with a tray of food, special treats to temp Alex away from his drinking. Alex smiled at her, ignored the contents of the tray which Walter finally snacked on for his lunch. 

When the heat grew too much for his 'northern' blood, Walter went in, read at the chair, worked out some specifications on his work or just took a nap. Alex stayed outside, dozing. When it cooled a little, Walter went back to finish the work he had set himself to do for the day. 

Nourrice prepared supper, shared a worried look with Walter and went home. Walter ate while Alex, who had by now moved inside, took over the couch and finished his bottle. When Walter decided to go to bed, Alex would make his way into his bedroom, shut the door behind him. Once or twice Alex fell asleep on the couch and Walter helped him to bed. 

And it would begin all over again the next day. 

Except that there were things that Walter noticed now that he was looking for...well, not them specifically, but for any sign that might indicate this need for Alex to drink himself into a stupor every day. 

There were of course the nightmares. There was barely a night that Walter didn't hear some noise from Alex's room. Sometimes only the sounds of someone who was suddenly waking; others, startled cries, panicky shouts, moans as if the speaker were in pain. 

Before, Walter had merely noted them then turned, as best he could in his bed, and gone back to sleep. Now he listened for them even in his sleep, like a mother for her child. And when they woke him, he lay on his back, listened, tried to identify the sort of sound. Then he worked his memory through the files that Mulder had produced whenever Krycek had popped up in some XFile, or in his life, to see if he could link the sounds coming from the room next to his with their cause. 

Days, he carefully noted that whenever he looked at Alex, Alex's eyes dropped, as though hiding something. Now and then though, Walter was too quick and caught the look of hunger, of longing that Alex immediately covered up or hid. He realized, too, that Alex's eyes were forever on him. If he moved from his work area to the box that held his tools, Alex's eyes followed him. 

He began testing that, by moving from one end of the yard to another. Alex's eyes moved with him. If he moved inside for whatever reason other than the usual routine he had established, he got to understand that the first glance from Alex held relief, as though he hadn't expected Walter to come back out. 

The same look that Alex wasn't able to hide when he first came out of his bedroom in the morning and found Walter still here, in his house. 

As though, Walter finally concluded, he did not expect Walter to stay, expected him to take off. 

Walter lay in bed one night, a week after he had discovered the photos, and asked himself just how he felt about the fact that his presence seemed to be affecting a man he would have sworn had no feelings of any kind, affecting him in such a way as to send him to drink. 

If he were smart, thought Walter, he would leave here. 

He wondered why that line of action held no appeal for him. 

* * *

Walter finally had enough. Nourrice had gone from looking at him with hope that he would do something about Alex's drinking to disappointment that he hadn't. And Alex's body seemed to be quickly adjusting to the amount of alcohol he was pouring into it, now needed more for the same effect. The day that Alex opened a second bottle was the day that Walter finally admitted to himself that this had to stop. 

That he liked it here. That he had no intention of going away. And that he cared enough about the man drinking himself into an early grave to do something about it. 

He put down the book he kept for reading after supper, went over to the man who was concentrating on refilling his glass. Walter reached over, placed a hand on either side of Alex's face and tugged enough so that his gaze rose from the glass to Walter's face. 

"That's enough." 

Alex frowned, not understanding. 

"No more, Alex." He pulled out his best AD tones. "Put the cap back on that stuff and put it away. You did not survive all the shit you have just to end up as some drunk on a tropical island." 

Alex was drunk enough to lean his face into one of Walter's hands. Eyes forced open, he growled with the careful enunciation of a drunk, "What the hell does it matter to you what I end up as?" 

"It matters, Alex." Then more softly, "It matters." 

Walter leaned in and, eyes intently holding those bleary cat eyes, he skimmed his lips, back and forth, across Alex's. As he watched, Alex's eyes began closing only to snap back open as though their owner couldn't believe what was happening. 

Walter sucked on Alex's lower lip, pulling it gently into his mouth, nipping on it. Once more Alex's eyes grew heavy. His mouth opened slightly. 

The smell of scotch was strong, as was its taste, when Walter accepted the invitation of Alex's mouth. 

Walter was surprised when Alex passively allowed him entry, allowed his tongue to examine, to tease. With no response. 

He pulled back slightly, enough to see the pained look on Alex's face. 

"Alex?" Walter rested his forehead on Alex's, hands still holding his face. "Alex, if you don't want this, you're going to have to say something." 

Alex slowly opened eyes that had darken. "Not want this?" He sounded unbelieving. 

"Yes. You have to tell me if you don't want this. This," he added, laying claim on the partially opened mouth. This time, when he pulled away, Alex's tongue followed, to lick the taste of Walter's mouth from his lips. Walter's mouth captured it, sucked it in, sucked harder until Alex's mouth was solidly against Walter's. Where he fed on it. 

Alex gasped, moved his head from Walter's grasp and used his mouth to sculpt Walter's face, his neck while Walter was no less determined to know his. 

Suddenly, Alex was far more sober than Walter would have given him credit for. 

And he was hungry. Aggressive. 

Walter found himself on the floor, arms filled with a wriggling mouth that seemed to be over him, everywhere, all at the same time. 

Their clothing found its way to whichever corner of the room it happened to land in. Alex's t-shirt was almost ripped as Walter tugged it over his head, tossing it aside as soon as it cleared. The buttons to Walter's shirt sparkled like decorations on the floor. Their shorts, underwear ended up...wherever. None of that was important. 

What was important was the feel of skin against skin, of the flavour of this part of the other's body tested against another. The heat in the two bodies rose as did their cocks, taking precedence in the way they touched each other. The way they rubbed their groins together, hard, rolling their hips, first one on top then the other. 

This was further than Walter had expected to go this night. Hell, he hadn't expected this -- period -- this night. He hadn't prepared at all. 

"Alex...Alex! Stop a minute. Stop! Alex! Lube, Alex. We need lube. And condoms." 

Alex balanced his weight on his one hand, rolled his hips against Walter's in a way that made him stupid. "Nothing to worry about, Walt. A little gift from that Oilian I carried in me for some time. I'm clean." 

And with that, Alex moved quickly, straddling Walter's hips. He guided Walter's cock so that with one downward shift of his hips, Alex impaled himself on Walter's cock. 

Alex's shout of pain penetrated Walter's arousal-fogged brain. 

"Jesus! Alex, what the fuck..." 

"Fuck. Yeah, fuck." Alex's head had dropped but now he raised it. "This is what this is all about, isn't it, Walter? A fuck? Just a fuck." 

Whatever arousal was left quickly disappeared when Walter saw Alex's face grimace, contort in pain, as Alex raised his hips and brought them back down again. 

As something wet and warm leaked out onto Walter's bush, Alex once more raised himself. 

Christ! thought Walter, this is rape. Hell, he's using me to rape himself. 

Walter moved, far more quickly than Alex could react. And now it was Alex on the floor, Walter pulling out, touching himself, staring in disbelief at a hand red in the light of the lantern that hummed happily overhead. 

"What the hell are you doing, Krycek!" He looked around the room, trying to find something he could use to staunch the blood coursing out of Alex's anus. He reached over, snagged Alex's tshirt, wadded it up and placed it between his legs, holding it tightly, hoping that would be enough. 

Alex lay on his back, his one arm flung over his head. Amazingly, he began laughing. 

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Walter snarled, angry at the turn of events, not certain how to handle this. Not sure what he would do if the bleeding didn't stop. 

"It's only a fuck, Walt. It's not important. Not to you." His laugh held a tinge of hysteria as well as pain. "Hey, not to worry, big boy. It's only blood. Clean blood. You can't catch anything from me. Told you. One of the side benefits of playing taxi for the Oilian." 

Walter could feel the level of his frustration rise. Damn! He always wanted to hit Krycek when he got that snide tone in his voice. "Krycek! I..." 

Alex interrupted him. "Hell, what are you getting all excited about, _Walt_? It's only a mercy fuck. What the hell does it matter to _you_ how _I_ wanted it? That I thought I might remember it longer if it hurt more. Hey! That's how I was trained. You'd be surprised how well you remember something when there's pain associated with it." 

Walter felt the frustration leave him, to be replaced with a feeling of... 

"Disgusts you, doesn't it, Walt? _I_ disgust you. That's the problem with mercy fucks, Walt. They make you want to take a bath. Scrub yourself clean." 

Walter checked the pad, rotated it to a unbloodied spot and pressed it back to try and once more stop the flow. "That's twice you've mentioned mercy fucks. What are you talking about?" 

This time Alex's laugh was more of a sob. "You found the box of photos. And the letter. The letter is always at the bottom of the box, Walt. I never read it again once I wrote it. The photos are always on top of it. Not the letter on top of the photos, Walt." 

"Alex..." Shit, what could he say, thought Walter, that wouldn't sound like an after-the-fact lie? 

"Just wish you would have warned me, Walt. Oh, I get it. You weren't planning to go this fast, eh, Walt? Drag it out, a bit at a time, until Soleil is due." 

Apart from his chest rising and falling with the force of his breathing, Alex hadn't moved. But he no longer bothered to hide the pain on his face, the hurt and longing in his eyes. Walter found it hard to look at this man who lay as though waiting for some booted foot to kick him. 

"Alex, I have no intention of leaving." 

"Yeah! Right!" His voice mocked bitterly. "Let me guess. Your great love for me is holding you back." 

And that's when the shivering began. Shivering that quickly grew to shudders that racked the man now holding back sounds in his throat that he would not allow out. That seemed to increase the pressure within him to the point that its only release was through tears. 

Walter sat on the floor, back against the couch and pulled Alex to him, wrapping himself around an Alex who was almost unaware of him. He placed one hand between his legs, holding the pad, holding Alex's lower body close to him. With his other arm, he pulled Alex's head to his shoulder, held him tightly. He raised his knees, used them to finish the cradle in which he held the weeping man. 

It was as though a dam had burst. The sounds Alex made tore out of him, resounding as though coming up from a bottomless well before breaking free. And they continued for so long that Walter feared they might never end. 

He did wonder, as he tried for words, sounds that might help them both through this maelstrom, how many years' worth of repression was escaping this night? 

The shudders gradually diminished to mere shivers again. Walter looked around for something to drape over Alex's cooling body. When he went to reach for his shirt, Alex made a sound in the back of his throat that Walter knew he would never forget. Alex clutched at him with his hand, tried to burrow into his heat. 

"I'm not leaving you, Alex. I'm just reaching for my shirt. See. Let's get it over you. Help keep you warm. It's okay, Alex. It's going to be okay. I'm not going anywhere. It's going to be all right. You'll see." 

"Nnno...never..." voice so raw that it hurt just to hear "...never be all right again." 

Walter rubbed his cheek on the dark head that was tucked under his chin. "Why not, Alex?" 

"My arm. Oh, god, Walter...they cut off my arm. I...my arm...hurt so much...and I had to do things...things so that they would let me live...had to prove over and over that I...hurt you...others...my arm. Walter, I want my arm back. Please, Walter. I want my arm back..." 

The weeping began again, less wildly, more restrained. Not less painful to hear. 

Walter knew this time there was nothing he could say. He rocked the pain-filled man in his arms, could only think to hum the lullaby his mother had sung to her children when they had been young and in pain. 

* * *

This time when he pulled the pad back, the red was darker, less shiny. The bleeding had stopped. As had the weeping. 

Alex had been so quiet, so still, that Walter thought him asleep. As he wondered just how he was going to get Alex up and into his bed, Alex tilted his head back. The eyes were almost swollen shut, his nose dripping mucus. Not the face of the beautiful man who had raised so much havoc in their lives. Only a man who had been pushed to the end of his resources. 

He was obviously exhausted. Somnambulantly, his head rolled back so that it rested on Walter's upper shoulder. 

Walter picked up the sleeve of his shirt, used the rolled cuff to wipe the traces of tears off Alex's face. He pulled so that the unrolled part was in his hand. "Here. Blow." 

Alex frowned, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. Walter placed the fabric on his nose. "Blow." 

And Alex did. 

"You're going to have to help me. I can't carry you, Alex. Let me get up and then I'll help you up and into bed." 

Easier said than done. Walter had been sitting naked on a wood floor for a couple of hours. He had no feeling left in his ass and getting to his feet made him feel every year of his age. Finally, he found his legs and, offering Alex his hand, tugged the man up to equally rubbery legs. Supporting Alex against him, Walter led their hesitant way into the bedroom. Not only had Alex barely the energy to walk, Walter was terrified that the bleeding would start again. 

They made it into Alex's room. With one hand free, Walter managed to turn down the bedding, to help Alex onto the mattress. As if in slow motion, Alex curled back up, on his left side, into a foetal position. Walter took advantage of that to go find a clean white towel and some antibiotic ointment. He squeezed out a fair portion of the ointment onto the pad he formed with the towel and placed against Alex's ass, tucking one end between his legs. Then he covered Alex with the sheet and the light blanket. 

He was worrying about getting another blanket to cover the sleeping man when a hoarse voice whispered, "Walter?" 

"Right here, Alex." 

"Please...could you..." Then silence. 

"Alex?" Walter sat on the side of the bed. Alex was still curled up, eyes closed, not looking at Walter. 

"Please." Whispered so faintly that Walter had to bend down to hear. "One night. Could you...could you give me...this one night? Not much of it left. Please." 

Walter closed his eyes. Hell, begging -- yet something in the voice told him that its speaker was braced for rejection. 

"I'm just getting another blanket, Alex. You're still shocky." 

Alex said nothing. Walter decided against the other blanket in favour of body heat and went around to the other side of the bed. It may have been wider than his own, but it still hadn't been built for two, especially two men neither of whom was small. It took a minute or two to find a diagonal position, drag the pillows over, turn Alex enough so that he fit against him, then pull the covers over them both. 

Walter stared at the ceiling that was lit faintly by the ebbing light of the lantern in the living room. The shadows were moving in patterns dependent on the amount of kerosene the wick was getting. Alex snaked his arm across Walter's chest, moved slightly so that his head snuggled on Walter's breast and lay very still. 

Walter could feel Alex's rhythmic breath waft in the hair on his chest. 

After a while, they both slept. 

* * *

"Just where the hell do you think you're going?" 

Alex was startled. He looked around to the doorway and the dressed man angrily glaring at him. 

"What...what are you doing here?" 

Walter sighed his exasperation loudly. "I live here. Don't you remember?" 

He entered the room and went over to the man who was sitting on the edge of his bed. Bruised eyes, large in the overly pale face, dropped, refusing to meet his. 

Walter wasn't certain which tone to take with this man. He certainly didn't like the fact that Alex's arm came up, almost as though he expected to ward off a blow. 

"I think," he softened his voice, "that you have me confused with another man, Alex." 

The arm went down and the head cocked to one side. "I'd have thought you'd be long gone by now." 

Walter sighed. "What I have been doing is cleaning up the blood from the floor. Didn't think that Nourrice would like to see the floor the way we left it last night." 

Alex shrugged. Walter thought he really didn't care. It angered him and his voice reflected that. "She doesn't deserve to be frightened that way. She cares for you." 

Alex still didn't meet Walter's eyes. He did try to shove himself off the bed. Walter's hands came down onto his shoulders, forcing him to remain in place. "Where do you think you're going, Alex?" 

This time Alex did look up. "I need to piss. Do you have any objections?" 

Better, thought Walter. The eyes looked slightly peeved. 

He slipped an arm around Alex's shoulders and helped him up. 

"Fuck off, Skinner. I'm not an invalid. I've already checked myself. There's no more bleeding. I don't need your help. You don't need to play the concerned lover routine." 

Walter ignored the comment. Alex tried to pull away and his knees buckled. Walter grinned unrepentently as he grabbed hold of the man. "You were saying?" 

He couldn't help but notice that, for all the muttered cursing, Alex leaned into him more than Walter would have liked. Too many days of a liquid diet filled with empty calories on top of the emotional draining of last night's debacle were bearing fruit. 

Walter waited for Alex outside the privy, helped him into the shower and, though he stood by while Alex did a half-ass job of drying himself, he held his tongue. 

Nourrice arrived as Walter was helping Alex lie back on the couch, propped up with a cushion taken from the armchair. She said nothing, just went into the bedroom as she did every day these days to remove the bucket. They heard a shocked gasp. 

"Shit!" muttered Alex. "I forgot about the towel." He looked up at Walter. "There's blood on it." 

There wasn't that much, but enough that the next few minutes were uncomfortable for the two men as Alex tried to calm Nourrice's fears, then her anger. Walter wasn't able to follow that part of the conversation -- they were both speaking far too quickly for him -- but he had no trouble determining from the glares she directed at him whom she thought was responsible. 

At a look from her, Walter took a step back from the couch so that she could approach it. In spite of Alex's protests, she made him roll over to one side so that she could check him out. Walter shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Alex blushed red. 

When she had finished her inspection of him, Nourrice stomped off to the veranda. There, she let out a shrill whistle. In minutes, two of the children who inhabited the area were listening to her instructions, one of them taking a small note that she hastily wrote. With wide grins, they disappeared. 

Nourrice came back in, blatantly ignoring the two men who were so obviously both in her 'bad book'. She went into Alex's bedroom with clean sheets, changed the bed. 

Without her needing to say a word, Walter understood that she wanted Alex back in his bed. Alex opened his mouth to protest and shut it immediately at her stern glare. He allowed Walter to help him. 

Shit! thought Walter, she was better at this than he'd been. 

She had Alex settle on his stomach, lightly covered him with a sheet and, still glaring at the two men, she left them. 

"Remind me never to get her this pissed off ever again," muttered Walter as he sat in the chair by the desk. 

"You won't be around that long." 

Walter looked over to the man whose face was hidden in his arm. "What did she send the kids for?" 

"Bellehumeur." 

Walter winced. He hadn't had much to do with the doctor but they did smile and nod to each other whenever their paths crossed. 

"How hard is this going to make things for you...for us...here?" 

Alex ignored the 'us'. "This?" He finally moved his head so that he could look at Walter. "What this?" 

"Don't be obtuse, Alex. You know what I mean." 

"My homosexuality," said Alex, once more resting his face on the side of his biceps, "is not a problem here. They don't have the usual North American squeamishness about 'the third sex'. They're pretty open-minded about all kinds of sexuality. They even have the tradition of the 'mahus', men who assume women's roles, and no one beats them up or kills them for it. 

"Besides," Walter thought Alex sounded even more tired, "I told her that it was my fault. That I forced myself on you. Your reputation is safe. It would be better if you didn't leave the island yet, not for a few more months. Just to be on the safe side. I'll ask her to find you another place to stay." 

"I don't see anything wrong with this place, Alex. I'll leave if that's what _you_ want." 

Alex's arm choked off the sound he made. After a few minutes he lifted his head enough for Walter to hear him clearly. "Do what you want. What I've wanted has never counted for much." 

The sound of a vehicle ended the conversation. Walter went out to meet the doctor who was getting a report from a concerned Nourrice. She escorted Bellehumeur to the door of Alex's room, closed the door behind him and went off with only a slight frown to the kitchen area. 

Walter sat at the table and waited. 

About ten minutes later, Bellehumeur opened the door, quickly glanced around for Nourrice and then, with a smile, beckoned Walter in. He closed the door behind him, making Walter wonder if perhaps he and Alex weren't the only ones intimidated by the woman. 

"He says the problem is more my drinking than the bleeding." Alex was propped up on his side, looking a little strained. Walter concluded that Bellehumeur's examination had been more thorough than Nourrice's had been. 

"He says that he still wants me to take antibiotics, just in case of infection. Because it's the tropics, more than anything else." 

Walter accepted the small envelope of pills that the doctor handed him. He could read the dosage in the doctor's spidery handwriting. "Three times a day. Have you taken the first one yet?" 

Alex translated before answering yes. 

They both listened while Bellehumeur spoke again, eyes on Walter. Alex tried to protest but was sharply cut off. Walter got the gist of the threat. Did Alex want Bellehumeur to replace Walter with Nourrice? 

"He says that I have to be on a real liquid diet for a couple of days, to be vigilant about any bleeding, and to give up drinking at least while I'm taking the meds. Which I have to do for 10 days." 

Walter smiled at the doctor. "Tell him that the next time I see you headed for any kind of alcohol, I'm turning you over my knees. If it takes a sore ass to get you off the stuff, I'll see to it that your ass is too sore to sit." 

Alex was silent, eyes wary. Walter wondered if he had accidentally stepped into a quagmire of some kind. Alex finally translated. Bellehumeur laughed, patted Alex on the shoulder. With a wide smile of approval at Walter, he went out to deal with Nourrice. 

For a few minutes there was silence in the room. Walter watched Alex who was refusing to look at him again. Alex broke first. "Look, you don't owe me anything, Skinner. There's no need for you to stay here. You don't have to worry. You weren't responsible. I'll take my meds and keep away from the hard stuff." 

Whatever Walter was going to say, it went on hold. Nourrice knocked on the door and opened it. She sent a forgiving smile Walter's way as she carried in a tray with a glass of juice, a small teapot with cup and a bowl that seemed filled with an unset custard. With a wave of her hand, she let Walter know that he should leave. 

Walter knew better than to argue. 

Breakfast was waiting for him on the table. He guessed that between that and the smile, Nourrice had forgiven him. 

"Il va dormir." 

Walter looked up from the last of his coffee to catch the delighted smirk on Nourrice's face. She gestured to the teapot. So, the caretaker had a bit of the witch in her, thought Walter. He wondered if Bellehumeur agreed with local potions that knocked his patients out. 

Alex slept until it was time for his second dose of meds. He was groggy enough that after swallowing it and downing a glass of some other mixture Nourrice had whipped up, he uncomplainingly allowed Walter to help him out to the privy and then back into bed. He was asleep before Walter covered him up again. 

They repeated the routine at suppertime, and Walter wondered how long Nourrice was going to insist that Alex sleep. 

He went in to check on the man once more on his way to bed. Alex was curled around a pillow, his arm clutching it tightly as he made some murmuring sounds. Walter hesitated then sat on the side of the bed. With a gentle hand, he smoothed back the hair off Alex's face and carefully examined the features revealed by the gesture. 

The eyelashes were the first thing he noticed. Long, almost feminine. Women worked hard to get their eyelashes to look like that. Sharon had often protested that long eyelashes were wasted on men who had them naturally more often than what she thought was fair. 

The nose was not fair either, thought Walter. Not long. Childlike in a face that was anything but. He wondered if Alex had ever been ribbed about his nose. Walter let his finger skim down the length of it several times. The end of it wrinkled at the touch. Yes, definitely not the nose of a cold-blooded killer. 

The lips were partially parted, inviting. Hiding a mouth that had been anything but childlike last night. Nothing 'innocent' about his kisses. Walter let his tongue slowly trace a path on his lower lip, searching for any trace of Alex's taste. There wasn't any, of course. 

The face was thinner, more revealing of its structure than it had been that time in the hallway at JEH. Then, the face had been too young. He had heard Alex referred to as 'the kid', not only for his newness in the FBI, but for that face which made him look like a teenager, playing at being an agent. Looking at the face now, no one would make that mistake. 

Well, the years had put their mark not only on Alex, but on him as well. He found more wrinkles in the mirror when he shaved, less hair. He still had all his teeth, but for how long? 

Shit, he thought, he was getting as morose as Alex. Not what Alex needed. 

Hell, what was it that Alex needed? 

Walter gently carded his fingers through the longer hair. 

Someone to take care of him, thought Walter then almost laughed at the notion. As if Krycek had ever needed a caretaker! 

Then he sobered. Maybe Krycek hadn't, but Alex had. 

Nourrice was French for wet-nurse. The woman who nursed, cared for, more often than not loved the child of another woman. Alex had explained to him that at one time she had been just that, a wet-nurse for some family, that she had come back to the island with some medical training, had taken over as nurse between doctors, and often still was the one people turned to for medical help. 

She had told him that Alex had come here when he'd lost his arm. She had taken care of him. Of Alex, who had had no one to care for him. Who still didn't expect anyone to really care for him. 

Who, Walter thought back to the anguish of Alex's words last night, had accepted that no one would ever truly care for him. 

He sat for a long time, looking at the man who had killed him, saved him, had put his own life on the line for him. 

Before he went to find his own bed, he lowered his mouth to Alex's temple and placed a gentle kiss on it. 

* * *

Nourrice was wise enough to know that one day was all Alex would tolerate in bed. They had their first argument over the breakfast tray. Nourrice took a taste of the juice, the tea, the custard in order to prove that nothing had been drugged. 

Alex grumbled all through his meal, frowned at Walter when he handed him his meds. 

"I am not spending another minute in this bed," he growled. Then he repeated it in French. 

Nourrice nodded and smiled at him. "Le divan." 

So, even though he refused help, Walter wasn't certain that all that protest had been real. An hour after he had settled on the couch, Alex's book was open on his lap as he slept. 

By afternoon, the irritating, annoying, pain-in-the-ass Alex was back, full force. At one point, he snapped at Nourrice who set down the tray she had been carrying hard on the table by the couch. With raised eyebrows, a tone that Walter had never heard her use, she snapped something back and then made her way out with a dignity that indicated that she really had been offended. 

Walter didn't ask. He went to get the meds, handed Alex his supper dose and waited for him to take it. 

"Fuck off, Skinner. I don't need that stuff." 

Walter pulled out his coldest AD tone, the one he used when he needed people to listen to the rank, not the man. "You will take this or I shall be more than happy to shove it down your throat. Dry." 

Alex may not have been in the FBI for years, but the tone worked. Silently, though successfully still indicating his feelings, he made a production out of taking the medication. 

"Satisfied, mein Fuhrer?" 

Walter ignored the insult. In the same tone, he added. "Tomorrow, you will apologize to Nourrice for today's behaviour. You will be polite to her. I will excuse today's behaviour because I am aware that you are experiencing some withdrawal from the alcohol. But try this again tomorrow, Alex, continue acting like a two-year-old and I'll treat you like a two-year-old. I promise you won't like it. 

"Since you're feeling so much better, you can see yourself off to bed. I'm making an early night of it. I'll see you in the morning." 

At the door to his room, back to Alex, Walter tossed over his shoulder. "We will be having a discussion tomorrow about the situation, when both our tempers are more in control." 

The wall didn't dare shake from the manner in which he closed his door. 

* * *

Alex was up before Walter. When Nourrice didn't show up at her usual time, Walter noted that it worried Alex. Good. Served him right. Then he hoped that whatever had been said had not forever damaged the relationship between the two. Whether Alex wanted to admit it or not, he cared for the woman, as much as she cared for him. 

She arrived two hours late. Walter was outside, working on the model when he saw her come up the path. He had prepared for her arrival, looking up the words he needed in his dictionary. 

"He's worried," he assured her. "He didn't mean to hurt you. But let him apologize before you say anything." 

She smiled at him. "The medication. It makes people grumpy." 

But she did wait until Alex had awkwardly offered his apologies for his behaviour before smiling at him. Even from the doorway, Walter could see the tension leave Alex's bearing. 

He was quiet the rest of the morning, eating his lunch with no complaint, only thanks, taking his medication without comment. Nourrice left Walter instructions for supper, went off to run errands for herself. 

"You said you wanted to discuss the situation." Alex had moved into his chair on the veranda, glass of juice at hand. 

Walter looked up from his examination of the blueprint. "Alex, why don't you wear the prosthesis?" 

The question took Alex by surprise. Good, he wanted Alex relaxed before they moved into deeper topics. 

Alex shrugged. "It's heavy. Chaffs. Hurts more than normal in this heat." 

"It's a very specialized arm, isn't it?" 

"Got all the bells and whistles you could possible want." Though his voice was quiet, the sarcasm was loud. 

"And that's why it's heavy. Does that aggravate the phantom pain?" 

Alex shrugged again. "Probably. But when I wore a lighter one, it was less useful. I need...needed the bells and whistles." 

Walter made no comment about the change in tenses, just waited, wanting to see if Alex would ask why he was suddenly curious about the arm. But he didn't. 

Walter worked on fitting in a plank on what would be the deck of the model. When he spoke again, it was almost as an afterthought. "Alex, where does one buy mattresses around here?" 

Again Alex only answered the question. "Mattresses? Don't know. Papette, I guess." 

"American size mattresses?" 

"Probably." 

"How long does it take to get one from there to here?" 

Alex finally showed some interest. "Why?" 

Walter looked up from his work. "Well, I've been thinking. Neither you nor I are kids any more, Alex. Our bodies don't bend and recover the way they once did. Personally, I like a bed I can stretch out in. You?" 

Alex frowned, as though confronted with some theoretical dilemma. 

"If we were to order a king-size mattress now, Alex, how long before we get it here?" 

Alex looked as though he still didn't understand. "Depends. By boat or by plane?" 

"Which is fastest?" 

"Plane. But it's expensive." 

"What are all those millions for, Alex, if not to spend them? 

"I don't..." 

Walter smiled. Yes, for a man who had managed to survive attempts on his life, alien possession, amputation in barbaric circumstances, time in a Tunisian jail, he would have to remember that there were times his lover -- Walter's smile grew as he thought of that word -- his _lover_ did have his dense moments. 

"Pay attention, Alex." Walter came to stand in front of the veranda, an arm's reach from Alex who still really hadn't caught on. 

"I told you that night I have no intention of leaving. We'll discuss this concept of mercy fuck you have at a later time, but, right now, just let me tell you that I never bedded a person I didn't feel something for. Not once in my life, Alex. And I'm too old to drop that habit. But, as I said, we'll discuss that later. 

"Wal..." 

But Walter continued as though Alex hadn't tried to interrupt. 

"Now then. I suggest we put in an order for a mattress, Alex. However, until it arrives, no sex. That'll give us time to move things around, build the frame. Which we'll probably have to do inside your room as moving it in will be impossible. Of course, even then, we'll probably have to move everything else out. We could use my room as an office, I suppose." 

Alex finally honed in on one idea. "No sex?" 

Walter grinned. "No, none. That'll give you time to heal and for us to get use to the situation." He lost the smile. "And you're going to have to be sober for that, Alex. Not just for the duration of the meds. Understand? Drunks don't interest me. They don't turn me on." 

Alex nodded, still a little befuddled. "No sex and no booze." 

Walter nodded in turn. "Nice to see your brain functioning once again. Now where was I? Oh, yeah, we'll build the frame together..." 

"Together?" 

"Together, Alex. It's going to be _our_ bed. We _both_ need to be involved in building it." 

"In case you haven't noticed," said Alex, voice as neutral as he could make it, ignoring the topic of the bed, "building requires two arms." 

"Yes, it does. But then so does survival among sharks and barracudas. You found a way to do the one, you'll find a way to do the other." 

Alex bit his lower lip. Walter reached over and used his thumb to move the lip from Alex's teeth. "Don't do that. I love your mouth." 

Alex looked into Walter's eyes, as though not believing what he was hearing. 

"What? You don't think that I love your mouth, Alex? I do. I liked what you did with it the other night, but if you damage it, I won't be able to kiss you until that heals as well." 

"You want to kiss me?" 

Walter grinned. "Well, I would rather fuck you, but since you acted so stupidly, kissing is all we're going to be doing for the foreseeable future." 

Alex sat back in the chair, just out of Walter's reach. "You want to fuck me?" 

Walter sat on the edge of the porch, pulled one leg up and rested his arm on the upraised knee. "I think this is where we discuss this mercy fuck notion that you have." 

Alex caught himself from pushing out of the chair. Walter watched as his chin rose, as he visibly braced himself. He swallowed. "All right. Explain to me how you suddenly have fallen in love with me. How my good looks," his voice grew cold, "have made you overcome your reticence in touching the man who tortured you, killed you on the orders of his 'masters'." Alex sneered the last word. 

Walter sighed loudly. "Shit, Alex. You're asking me to explain hormones? Let's start with yours. Why the hell did you decide that I was the one you loved? 'Cause that's the term you used in that letter. Love. Not a word that I would have associated with our relationship." 

"We have a relationship?" Alex scorned. 

Walter ignored the tone. He knew that neither of them was quite comfortable with this discussion, but it had to occur if they were going to go anywhere. "Well, what would you call it? We seem to be more involved with each other's life than your socalled masters planned. Maybe you collected photos, but hell, I collected memories of you. In the gym, among others. That tight ass of yours in those shorts you used to work out. And maybe your speedo wasn't red, but it certainly fueled enough fantasies." 

"Yours?" Alex sounded almost bitter. 

Walter grinned. "Fuck, yes. I have a particular fondness for those old sweats you wore. You know, the ones with the legs cut off a little too short, the ones with the waist that always threatened to slip too low. I used to wonder how you would react if I tugged them off." 

Alex cocked his head to one side, voice a little wondering. "Shit! I had forgotten all about those." 

"Well, I haven't. Not about those, not about the black swim trunks you wore. Remember, skin tight. You could practically make out every detail of your cock when it was wet." 

Alex reddened slightly. "The show was supposed to attract..." 

Walter nodded. "Yes, well. It certainly caught my eye. Which is why, I suppose, I paid more attention to your reports than I normally would have to some junior agent." Walter let his voice return to the office. "You wrote good reports, Alex. They were a pleasure to read, compared to others I had to wade through. And you did good work." 

"This is where you remind me that I betrayed you all." Alex's chin went up again. 

"Once maybe. But if you had remained an FBI agent, we never would have had an inside man in their organization. Instead they would have had another in ours. What made you decide to change sides, Alex?" 

Alex passed his hand through his hair, grimacing a bit. Walter thought he was making a decision of some kind. Alex sighed, dropped his hand. "You were part of it. Not all. Spender helped shift me when he tried to have me blown up. But even after the Brit brought me back in, I was willing to do pretty much whatever they ordered me to until Spender decided that you were one of his failures, not one of his successes. The other Old Men all had their favourites, people they protected as long as the cost wasn't too high. I guess I decided you were mine." 

Walter reached out and placed his hand on Alex's knee. "And what was the price you paid for bringing me back to life?" 

Alex shrugged, not meeting Walter's eyes. 

"How was Tunisia, Alex?" 

Alex looked up, shrugged again. "Hotter than hell. Dry." 

"Was it worth it?" 

"Keeping you alive? Yeah." 

"Why me, Alex?" 

Alex looked away. Looked over the view of intense blue and green. "I really don't know. The first time I saw you, it was like being hit over the head with a hammer. The French have a term for it: coup de foudre. A thunderbolt." 

He was silent for a while. Walter gave his knee a slight squeeze as encouragement. 

"It wasn't just physical, though I do admit spending my share of time in the gym eyeing you." Alex looked back at Walter. "You filled out your workout clothes rather nicely." 

Walter grinned at him, gave a little nod of thanks. 

"You had a reputation for being hard but fair. You supported your people, no matter what, in public, though I don't doubt that you didn't have that reputation for reaming people for nothing." 

"My mother always defended us, all three of her sons, in public. But she didn't hesitate to use that wooden spoon on us once she got us home. I learned from the best." 

"You were lucky. I..." Alex looked away again. "Spender found me in a half-way house. For 'delinquent youth'. I was thirteen. I'd been pretty much on the streets since I was eight. My mother walked out when I was five and my father was too busy drinking to be much concerned with me." 

"Alex..." 

"I think that's what attracted me to you. That you cared for your people. I would have liked to have someone care for me. I used to..." his voice dropped, "wonder what it would be like to have you care for me. To have you...like me." 

"I do like you, Alex." He grinned at Alex's raised eyebrows. "I did a lot of thinking when I first got here. About you. You're not an easy man to get to know. At least, Alex Krycek wasn't. He was hiding behind too many masks. Alex Magritte, on the other hand, is easier to know." 

"Yeah, sure. What makes you think you know the first thing about Alexandre Magritte?" 

Walter smiled at the challenge in Alex's tone. 

"I know him through Nourrice, who cares deeply about him. Through his books, which show me he's got as much intelligence, wit as Krycek had the ability to make my life miserable. Through the reaction of the people in the village when I arrived here. Just being associated with him made me welcome. From the way they greeted him when he haggled for my tools. 

"From the fact that I enjoyed holding him in my arms. I loved the taste of him. And I know I want more of that. Just as I want to learn more about him." 

Alex's eyebrows wrinkled as that frown line appeared between them. He looked...unsure of himself. Walter wondered if anyone had ever seen Alex looking unsure. Wondered if he were ever going to see that look again on this man's face. 

"So, Alex, how do we go about ordering the mattress?" 

* * *

Nourrice was the one who came up with the suggestion that they add a room to the house. 

When Walter was drawing up the plans for the frame of their new bed at the table, she looked over his shoulder. 

"What is this for?" 

Alex looked up from the notepad where he was jotting down the specifics. "For our bed. For when the new mattress arrives from Papette." 

As if she and everyone else on the island weren't aware that Jean-Guy, at their behest, had put in a special order. 

She grinned at the two of them. "I was asking myself when you would grow too cramped on those little beds." And she laughed. "They barely hold one of you. How could they hold the two?" 

Walter still couldn't over how easily their new relationship had been accepted. Oh, there had been the usual smiles, nudges and winks when they had gone together to Jean-Guy to ask him to find them a suitable mattress. But it had all been in fun, not condemnation. They were being treated just like any other couple would have been. 

It was when Alex explained that they would move everything out of his room that she frowned. "Would it not be easier simply to add a room? There would not be enough space on the cliff side, but certainly off the side of the bedroom of Monsieur Walcott?" 

"Please, madame. Call me Walt." 

She smiled at him. "Walt, then." 

Alex shrugged. "How would it be easier?" 

"You have only to negotiate with Jean-Guy for him to gather his cousins. All the wood would have to be brought cut, but getting it up here would only need several trips with the Land Rover. After that, it would take, what? Two, maybe three days at the most. Moreover, it would give the two of you more room. You are not small men, you know." 

Jean-Guy was delighted. For a few extra francs, he was willing to take over negotiations at the sawmill, organize his cousins, oversee the actual building. Nourrice supervised the meeting at which Alex and Jean-Guy haggled over the costs, seeing to it that though Jean-Guy and all others involved were amply paid, that the cost was not unreasonable. 

After some consultation with another of Jean-Guy's uncles, this one a craftsman who was very popular on the island, it was decided that the veranda had to be extended around the new addition. More costs were haggled, again to everyone's satisfaction. 

"Jean-Guy says that the wood will be ready to be picked up tomorrow morning." 

Alex raised his head off Walter's shoulder. They were sitting side by side on the veranda floor, watching the moon float over the horizon. A new ritual in their lives. Every evening, they sat outside, not saying much. Just getting used to each other's proximity. At one point, Walter would pull Alex into his arms and they would kiss. Just kiss. 

The first night, Alex had tried to move it beyond that, but Walter had put a quick end to any shenanigans as he called them. 

"I'm all right, Walter." 

"Yes, I know. You're more than all right, Alex," he'd growled, enjoying the sudden flush that coloured Alex's face. "But I have no intentions of making love to you on a wooden floor. I want a bed. A big, comfortable bed. So behave yourself, or it's hands off -- completely -- until the bed arrives." 

Alex had moved his hand caressingly up Walter's side, across his chest. "The mattress won't arrive until next week. Are you sure you want to wait that long?" 

Walter had grinned at the lascivious look Alex had been wearing. He'd bent down and sucked marks of ownership along Alex's throat, revelling in the purring sounds his mouth elicited. "Yes." And had laughed at Alex's frowning reaction. "Behave yourself, boy. You're still on your medication. I don't want to be responsible for a relapse." 

And though he grumbled, Alex accepted that all they did was look at the scenery, talk a little and kiss a lot. 

Walter roared with laughter when he found the days x'ed off in red marker on the calendar that suddenly appeared on the wall by Alex's door. 

Things of course did not run as smoothly as Walter and Alex would have liked, but far better than Nourrice had expected. 

Jean-Guy and the cousins helped load up the Land Rover to the point that it could only proceed slowly back to the house with the men walking alongside of it, keeping the lumber from falling off. It took a full day and four trips in this manner to get all the materials up to the house. 

Of course, the old men of the village had to come supervise the entire construction. They sat out under the trees, offering comments and suggestions to those building, accepting coffee and juice from the children Nourrice had enlisted for that purpose. 

Work began early, just as the sun was rising and went into hiatus during the worse heat of the day, with more being done before the sun set. 

From beginning to end, the room and the veranda were done in five days, with everyone, the old men as well as family and friends, coming inside to inspect the final product, to offer their opinion on the efficiency of the workers, the excellence of the work, to accept a final "petit verre" of the local brew in celebration of the event. 

In the two days before the mattress was due to arrive, Walter, aided by Alex who was once more wearing his prosthesis, built the simple frame which would be the foundation of their bed. Nothing fancy, just a plain solid box that supported the mattress with a series of crossbars and wooden slates that were cut to fit in precisely. 

They built it in their new room, which had more than enough room for the bed, a couple of dressers that Jean-Guy just happened to 'find' in one of the many corners of le marche. They would set in the double doors that opened onto the veranda only after the mattress had been brought in. 

Jean-Guy had seriously taken Walter's request for the largest, longest, hardest mattress he could find. Because of its dimensions, it hadn't been able to make the trip to the island in a plane. Jean-Guy had contacted another cousin in Papette who had seen to it that space had been found for it on the monthly boat that was due in the next morning. 

"Damn it!" Walter raised his head from the mouth he was plundering. 

"Huh?" Alex panted, trying to catch his breath, not understanding why Walter had stopped. Bad enough he was left with a raging hard-on most nights, but what the fuck had distracted Walter so that he had pulled away? 

"How the hell are we going to get that monster up here? The damn mattress is too wide to move up here on the Land Rover. The road in some places is just wide enough for the Land Rover." 

A slow grin took over Alex's face. Widened until he was laughing. 

"What's so funny? An hour ago, you were the one bitching that it couldn't get here fast enough. Well, we may not be able to get it up here when it does arrive." 

"Oh, god! Walter! Shit! You would have to go order the 'largest, longest, hardest' mattress Jean-Guy could get his hands on! Remember how happy you were when he told you he'd found a custom made mattress that was seven feet by eight feet because the yacht it was made for had sunk before it had been installed and the seller was so desperate to unload it that he was going to throw in three sets of sheets and blankets that had been made for it?" 

"He didn't 'throw' them in. He charged us plenty for them," muttered a disgruntled Walter. 

Alex rested his head against Walter's shoulder, chuckling, happily ignoring Walter's growl. "Now you know how I've been feeling these last ten days and aching nights!" 

Walter sighed, dropped his cheek onto his yet-to-be lover's head. "What makes you think you're the only one who's been suffering in all this?" 

Alex turned his head. "Have you been wanting me?" 

Walter raised his head, glared his best AD glare at the man who, he suddenly realized, needed some reassurance. "Yes. What? You think I've been wearing my shirts out of my shorts for the freedom of action. Frankly, they've been hiding my 'condition' from everyone." 

"Your 'condition'?" 

"Jesus, Alex. If we hadn't had an audience and if it weren't for the fact that I wanted to be able to move afterwards, I would have taken you on the floor yesterday. Bent over like you were, shorts tight against your ass. Didn't you notice how many times I visited the privy?" 

The pleased smile that lit up Alex's face made all that discomfort worth while. A smile that just demanded kissing. 

Jean-Guy had anticipated the problem. The cousins were waiting for the boat when it arrived. They had prepared some short boards with wheels on them. Four of those, with the protectedly wrapped mattress standing on a side, tied on carefully and the small parade was ready. Walter drove the Land Rover first, clearing the way for the men who were under the direction of an enthusiastic Jean-Guy and a fretting Alex. 

Walter watched in the rearview mirror as an Alex he barely recognized from his days in D.C. argued with the men as they attempted to manoeuvre the low canopy that led up to the house. He parked the vehicle under its usual tree and went to sit on the edge of the veranda at the feet of Nourrice who smiled at him as Alex and Jean-Guy figured out the best way of getting the mattress into the new bedroom and onto its frame. 

Of course, everyone needed a drink and a 'pourboire' in thanks for their efforts. 

Nourrice was surprised when Walter stopped her from going into the room with the sheets and the blankets to make up the bed. He smiled at her, took them out of her arms. "Thank you, Madame Nourrice, but Alex and I will be the ones to make the bed tonight." 

She looked at him and, for the first time since he'd arrived, she reached over and pulled his head down for a kiss French-style, a loud smack on both cheeks with a third back on the first. "Good night," she grinned, even though it was barely four o'clock. "I should warn you, " she added on her way out, "I shall not be able to come tomorrow morning. Perhaps," she tossed over her shoulder, "I will not be able to come until the next day." 

* * *

They made up the bed together, in silence. 

Walter was aware that Alex kept sending him glances from under his eyelashes, as though he didn't quite believe they were actually here, at this point. 

Walter tossed the last pillow onto the head of the bed, grinned at Alex who stood almost nervous at the other side. 

"A shower might be a good idea." Walter went to the new inside door and held out his hand to an Alex who quietly stepped up to him, allowed his hand to be taken. 

The shower stall was small, not really made for two. They barely had room to move. 

"I think," said Walter, reaching up to pull the rope that released the water from the reservoir, "the next project will be to make this thing larger." 

Alex tilted up his face, catching the water as it sluiced them down. 

Walter found his silence a little troubling. Alex had said not a word since he'd realized that they truly were alone in the house. 

Then, with eyes that suddenly seemed to glint, Alex rubbed himself against Walter. "I think our next project should be testing out that bed. Just to see if it will hold." 

Walter laughed, pulled Alex out of the stall. 

The bed was everything that it had promised to be. Long enough so that two men who were both over six-foot didn't feel their feet would hang off. Large enough to contain the most boisterous of behaviour. 

Walter took Alex in his arms the way he did on the veranda and began kissing him the way he had every night since he had determined that this man was part of his future. 

This time, when Alex's hand moved into the realm of 'shenanigans', Walter only laughed, allowed his own hands to move there as well. 

Unlike that other night, Alex followed Walter, letting him take the lead. Walter went slowly, far too slowly at times for Alex who protested under his breath, incoherently at times. Walter just laughed, drawing out the moments until Alex was making sounds that had no words. He pulled back often, enjoying the sight of his lover writhing under him, hand clenched in the bedclothes, body arched, head thrown back. 

"So beautiful. You're so beautiful, Alex." 

Alex rocked his head back and forth, finding enough voice to plead, "Fuck me, please, fuck me!" 

Walter was more than happy to oblige. He carefully prepped his lover, using ample lube to ensure that there would be no bleeding. He took a teasingly amount of time stretching Alex's hole so that he would be able to accommodate him. Alex, he grinned, was not all that appreciative of his concern. 

"Jesus! Will you just fuck me!" 

His complaint ebbed into a groan of satisfaction when Walter finally gave him what he so wanted. What they both wanted. Needed. 

Walter waited until Alex's body had arched, until his scream of completion faded before taking hold of his lover's hips in his strong grasp and allowing himself to come in the tight sheath of Alex's ass. 

Eyes closed, Alex limply allowed himself to be cleaned, moved so that he lay in Walter's arms. Walter yawned, managed to drag the sheet over them and head resting on Alex's, he let sleep drag him down. 

The lack of something woke him. 

Eyes barely opened, he checked and realized the lack was Alex. 

Walter sat up in bed, looked bleary-eyed around to find his lover, back to him, curled as far away from him as he could and still be on the bed. 

"Alex?" He reached out, not sure but with the feeling that something was wrong. 

Alex flinched when Walter's hand rested on his shoulder. 

Shit! _Something_ was definitely wrong. 

Walter moved so that he was close to Alex, ready to take him into his arms. 

But Alex wasn't sleeping, managed without falling off the bed to indicate that he didn't want to be touched. 

"Alex? What is it?" 

The only light in the room came from the quarter moon that shone through the shaded window off the veranda. Alex had his head tucked close to his chest. Slowly he straightened it, looking out into the darkness. 

"Alex." 

"Now would be a good time to yell 'April Fools, Alex.'" 

Walter was shocked by the words, horrified at the raw tightness of Alex's voice. "I don't understand." 

"For your revenge..." 

"Revenge? What the hell are you talking about, Alex?" 

Alex closed his eyes. "Revenge for what I did to you and the people you really care about. For you to hurt me like I hurt you....and them." 

"Alex." Walter sat up, crossed-legged, and tried to figure out where all this was coming from. 

"I know that you really don't care for me..." 

"Alex!" 

But Alex ignored him, kept right on talking in that almost robotic tone. "Please. I don't mean to ruin your fun, but if you wanted to rip my heart out, do it now. I promise it will hurt more than anything ever has in my entire life." 

Walter passed his hands over his scalp, wanting to growl in frustration. Years of handling delicate situations came to his rescue. He took a deep breath and started analyzing the situation. 

Game. Alex had used the word game. Why would he... 

"Alex, I swear I'm not playing a game. Shit! What kind of game do you think I'm playing?" 

For some long moments, there was silence. Then, "The 'give the kid what he wants most and then take it away from him' game. I'm an old hand at this. I know when things are too good to be true, Skinner." 

Walter closed his eyes. Damn, but he was going into this blind. Sometime in the past someone had... 

"Alex, who played this game with you?" 

Alex choked a sound that might have been laughter if it hadn't been so painful to hear. 

"Alex? Please. Talk to me." Walter tried to infuse his voice with a calmness he really didn't feel. 

Once again he waited until finally, "I told you I'd been on the streets." 

"Yes, you did." Walter kept his voice as soothing as he could make it. 

"My father didn't care. When he drank, which was pretty much all the time, he got violent. I...the streets were safer." 

Walter bit his tongue. Like hell they were! What kind of violence would make the streets seem that way? 

"One night, this man picked me up. Took me to a motel. I thought what he wanted was the usual blow-job. Instead, he told me to take a shower, gave me some clean clothes. New clothes. I couldn't remember the last time I had had new clothes." 

Walter endured the silence though he wanted to shout, do anything to break it. 

"He took me out to a restaurant...not a drive-through, but a real restaurant. A sit down in chairs at a table place. He looked at the menu, asked me what I liked to eat. I didn't know what the hell they would have. I had never been in a place like that. So he asked if he could order for me. 

"When the guy came to take our order, the man said, 'And my son will have...'" 

Walter cursed silently, viciously. 

"It was like that everywhere we went. And he took me everywhere with him. He was in town on business and he took me along to his meetings. 'Is it all right if my son sits here? He's very quiet.' And I was. He'd bought a bunch of books for me to read while I waited for him. And then he would smile and ruffle my hair when the people in the offices complimented him on my behaviour. 'Yes,' he'd say, 'my son has the makings of a fine man. I'm very proud of him.' 

"At night, he had me sleep in the bed next to his. He would wait until I was asleep and then he would slip in next to me, touch me. After the first night, I just pretended to be asleep, made snoring noises so that he would join me. He didn't fuck me or anything like that. He didn't ask me for a blow-job. He just liked to touch me, play with my cock, but always gently. He didn't hurt me." 

Like fucking hell! thought Walter. 

"He took me to a ball game and a couple of movies. He bought me some more clothes. Books. He took me out to a different restaurant every night. I let him order for me just to hear him say 'My son'. I made sure the waiter would hear me answer him, 'Thank you, Dad.' 

"One afternoon, he asked me if I would like to come live with him. Shit! I would have walked through fire for him! I was so in love with him by then." 

"How old were you, Alex?" 

"Old enough to know better. Eleven." 

Walter felt an overwhelming anger rise in him. He fought to keep his voice even. "What happened?" 

"We went back to the motel. Packed up all the books, the clothes, stashed them in the trunk of his car. I got into the passenger seat. I was in heaven." 

Fuck! In love with someone who'd said he wanted him. Walter braced himself. 

"We drove through town, back to the neighbourhood where he'd picked me up. He parked the car, got out. Came round to my side, opened the door and hauled me out onto the sidewalk. 

"'The clothes you're wearing should take care of what I owe you,' he said. Really loudly. Then he got into his car and drove away." 

Walter didn't think Alex was aware of the tears on his cheek that shone silver in the faint light. "See. It was all a game. I should have realized that no one wanted something like me." 

"Alex..." Walter's throat hurt. 

"Spender liked to play little games, too. 'Do as I say, Alex, and I'll take care of you.' I learnt not to believe him. And every time I tried to get out of his game, I got pulled in deeper. 

"He was right all along. He said that I was good for only two things. Fucking and killing. 

"I know that...that you're not in love for me. That you don't really care for me. That it was all a game for you. A chance to get some revenge for the fact that I've ruined your life. That, because of me, if you go back, you'll have a murder charge to face. Unless, of course, you kill me here and bring my body back to prove that it wasn't me that you killed in the garage." 

"Alex! That's enough!" Walter was beginning to let his anger loose from his control. Okay, Alex had had a raw deal from life, but why the hell couldn't he believe _him_... 

"Come on, Skinner. Do it now. No need to draw it out." 

Alex turned then and Walter saw the child who had been offered a dream only to have it brutally taken from him. Who had been given another dream and expected that also to be taken from him. 

Walter found it hard to breathe, Alex's pain and fear hurt him so much. 

He swallowed whatever curses he wanted to scream out. Instead, he reached out with a finger and drew it down the line of wetness on Alex's face. "You want me to tear your heart out, Alex. Sorry. If I did that, I would tear my own out as well." 

He pulled his hand back, rested it on his knee. "Alex. I'm sorry but I don't play games. Not of this kind. I never have. I have no intention of starting now. Whether you like it or not, I love you. I care for you." 

He ignored the denial he saw starting on Alex's face. 

"Yes, it's true that what you did to me, to those I care for to some extent or another, was hurtful. Alex Krycek was not a particularly nice guy. But in spite of that, he kept us all alive. Scully and her baby are alive and well because he came to help us. Mulder's alive and not a replicant because of him. *I'm* alive today because of him. 

"And yes, I do know that one part of the man in this bed with me is Alex Krycek. Will always be Alex Krycek." 

Alex flinched. His face tightened. 

Walter gentled his voice. "But that's okay. Because, all things considered, when we needed him, Krycek came through. 

"Alex, I told you once that I never bedded anyone that I didn't at least feel something for. I swear to you that I have never teased myself with holding back as I have these past two weeks. I have certainly never built a bed with someone I want as much as I want you. 

"I think," Walter couldn't hide some of the sadness he felt, "in your mind, you made me up to be something I'm not, Alex. You said that you fell for me as if a thunderbolt had hit you. I wonder if you see the real me or someone your imagination created." 

Walter reached for Alex, pulled the man who put up a token resistance into his arms and dragged them both back to rest against the pillows. He wrapped his legs around those of this man who loved yet doubted love. 

"Alex. Look at me. Please." 

Alex hesitated, then slowly rolled his head back. Walter was reminded of the way Alex had looked the night he had broken down. If he really had been waiting for a moment to spring some sort of revenge, now would be it. This man would not only break, he would shatter. Probably into enough small pieces that he would never recover. 

"My name is Walter Sergei Skinner, now known as Francis Walcott. I am 50 years old. I am a middle-aged, balding male. I'm only a human being, Alex. 

"I burp, fart, belch like any other man. I scratch my ass, my balls. I piss, shit, vomit. I grow nose hairs, ear hairs but no hair on the top of my head. I snore. I have moods. I snarl, I grumble, I bitch. I laugh. I smile. I enjoy football, hockey, basketball. I like a cold beer on a hot day. I need to keep busy. I like coarse jokes sometimes and don't mind watching the occasional porn vid. I like to read history and thrillers. I love spicy food but my stomach is beginning to tell me it doesn't. I sin and am sinned against. I forgive in hope that I too will be forgiven. 

"I enjoy sex. I love what we did here tonight. In this bed that we built together. I want to do it again. Often. With you. I love watching you, Alex, when I make you hot. I love the fact that I can make you hot. I love that you're the one who makes me hot. I love talking with you. I love watching the many layers that make up the man that is you unfold. I love the sight of you. I love the taste of you. I love the smell of you. I love you. Alex. Whatever your last name is, it doesn't matter. You matter. To me." 

Walter stroked the face of the man who had slowly wrapped himself around him, whose eyes glistened with hope and love. 

"I've made many mistakes in my life, Alex, done things that I regret. But being here with you is no mistake and I will never regret loving you. Question is, this imperfect being that I am, do you, can you love him?" 

* * *

Walter looked over at Alex who was concentrating on sanding a part of the deck. He checked with the sun and decided that they were done for the day. While Alex finished working the board to his exacting standards, Walter gathered their tools and stashed them in the heavy box that they had built for them. The box locked, more to keep the children out rather than fear of theft, which meant that the tools could be safely left behind here on the beach where they were building the sailing ship. 

The local old men who supervised them every day from under the shade of the palm trees gathered up their chairs and mats. With a parting nod, they all left for their homes. 

"I'm going to have a little talk with Jean-Guy. This stuff is just not up to par with the other lumber." 

Walter grinned. Alex was pickier about the wood than he was. Jean-Guy was going to have some explaining to do. 

They got into the Land Rover and drove back up the hill to home. Nourrice's grand-daughter was just leaving. "I've left your favourite, monsieur Walt. A cassoulet made with chicken for your supper. It's ready to eat." 

"Manon, je t'adore! Marry me!" Walter took her hand in his, brought it up to his mouth and planted a loud kiss on the back of it. 

Manon laughed. "Monsieur Walt!" 

Alex shook his head, grinning. "If you run away with someone that young, you won't last a month." 

Walter grinned as Manon rushed off to meet the young man who was courting her. 

"I might just remind you of this comment tonight," Walter led the way to the shower, "should you want to do more than cuddle." 

Alex grabbed hold of Walter, pushed him against the wall and kissed him hard. "Well, if that's all you'll want to do..." and left Walter trying to find his knees. 

This shower stall was large enough for the two of them to wash the day's sweat off each other. Alex stashed his arm in their bedroom. With Walter's help, he wrapped a length of colourful material around his hips and tucked in the end tightly around his waist. Walter dragged on an old pair of shorts. 

While Walter set the table and served up, Alex found the bottle of wine they'd begun last night and poured them each a glass. 

"I think it's coming along on schedule." Walter dunked his bread French-style in the sauce of the cassoulet. 

"The Cousins should be here next week to help with the mast," Alex took a sip of his wine. "Is this the Australian stuff we ordered?" 

Walter had no trouble moving from mast to wine. "Yeah." He picked up the bottle. "McLaren Vale, Cabernet Sauvignon. The 1994\. Not bad. We should order more." 

After supper, they cleaned up -- Manon only dealt with their supper meals and their laundry -- and Walter went out to one of the back huts to turn on the generator. 

Alex found the video that had arrived from Australia in that week's mailbag. 

Walter stretched out on the couch and watched Alex settle in the chair. No, that wouldn't do. Not for viewing this particular video. 

"Alex?" And he reached out with a hand. With a smile, Alex left the chair and came to lie alongside Walter. 

The video was one of those talk show things that neither of them usually cared for. Except this one contained an interview with the American writer of a super successful series of books dealing with alien exploration of Planet Earth. 

Alex moved his head until he found a comfortable spot on Walter's shoulder. He snaked his arm around his lover's chest and watched the television as it went through a series of commercials for Australian products. 

"We should see if we can get one of those for Nourrice," Alex said as they watched the commercial for a new sewing machine. 

"Hmmm," agreed Walter, both of them knowing that she preferred her old foot-pedalled, non-electrical Singer for sewing the sails they used. 

Once a year, they went to Sydney, Australia. 

Among other things, to stock up on books. 

Walter's collection of old naval and marine sailing boat plans was continually growing. They had lucked out on their first visit with finding a marine bookstore whose owner had a passion for old sailing vessels. 

To visit the prosthetic shop where Alex's arms were made. 

Walter had insisted on a visit to a specialist that first visit as well. He thought the fact that Alex's body was lopsided was having an effect on his balance. The old arm, the one with all the bells and whistles, was too heavy to wear in the climate they lived in. And for the work they did. 

He had been right. The doctor had been quite concerned about the damage that might end up happening to Alex's spine if he continued to compensate while not wearing an arm. 

The people at the prosthetic shop had been delighted to accept the challenge of designing an arm that was light, yet of use to a man who was into boat building. This second one seemed to be their best success yet. Alex had no trouble with wearing it all day, though he still preferred to remove it in the evenings. 

To catch up on the news. 

Not that they much cared for what was happening far from their world. But now and then, a piece of news came their way that reminded them of other times, when they had been other men. Like the announcement that this writer would be attending a literary festival and that the channel had managed to arrange an exclusive interview. 

So Sophie at their other favourite bookstore had been more than delighted to offer to tape the program and to mail it on to them. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, 'What's in Print', the Sydney Festival and I are delighted to introduce all viewers to Dr. Fox Mulder, author of 'Red, White, Blue and Grey - Extraterrestrial Invasion and the United States Government' and of 'It Didn't Happen on Independence Day - Alien Invasion of the United States', which has been number one on the New York Times Bestseller list for the past 76 weeks." 

The studio audience was loud in its appreciation of the man who walked out. 

"He looks older," said Alex. 

"That's because he is." 

Alex tilted his head up. "Well, we're not." 

"Of course not," agreed Walter, thinking of his much narrower grey line of hair. He grinned and ruffled the dark hair somewhat lightened by grey that rested on his chest. 

They went back to watching as the interviewer questioned Mulder about his writing, the sale of his last two books to the film industry. His personal life, which the interviewer acknowledged he was taking a chance doing since his guest had a bit of a reputation for refusing to answer questions he felt were too personal. 

They could tell that Mulder was slightly irritated by those questions. 

Still, that night, he did indicate that his wife, Doctor Dana Scully, was herself writing a book dealing with the forensic evaluation of early alien visitors who had unfortunately died on the planet. 

"You have children." 

Walter and Alex both perked up. 

"Yes, a son and a daughter." 

"Wonder if they called her Samantha?" mused Walter. 

Mulder didn't volunteer his daughter's name. 

"I understand that there is a real mystery still unsolved that you wrote about in your first book, Dr. Mulder. 'Ghosts in the Hoover - Extraterrestrials and Politics'." 

Alex craned his neck. "Hey, Walter, did you know about that first book?" 

Walter shrugged. "I never saw it in any of the bookstores we went to in Sydney. Guess it didn't make it over here." 

"Tell us, Dr. Mulder, have there been any further developments concerning the disappearance of your then supervisor, Assistant Director Walter Skinner? Was there perhaps more to it than what your book revealed?" 

Alex snickered. "He doesn't like that question at all, does he?" He grinned up at Walter. "I guess this makes you gone but not forgotten, Walt." 

Walter tugged a lock of Alex's hair. "Shut up." And followed that up with a quick kiss. 

Mulder was explaining that after several years of supporting the X-Files, of having gone out on a limb for the department so many times, at great cost, not just to his career, but to his person, the AD had finally broken... 

"Broken!" Walter took offense. 

...when confronted with the man who had made gone out of his way so many times to torture and torment him... 

"So many times? Just how many times does he think I used those nano things on you?" Alex glared at the screen. 

"As I explained in my book, Assistant Director Skinner was responsible for the death of Alex Krycek. Then he disappeared." 

"Disappeared? Just like that?" The interviewer looked skeptical. 

"The Authorities searched thoroughly for him. He never returned to his apartment. His accounts have never been accessed. His credit cards have never been used. Anywhere. He simply vanished." 

"Could he have been abducted?" 

Mulder grimaced. "Our sources tell us he wasn't. His disappearance is just a sad mystery. We do not expect to see or hear from him ever again. In fact, his family has now started proceedings to have him declared legally dead." 

Walter hit the pause button on the remote. Alex sat up and looked at him, worried at Walter's reaction. 

"Don't they have to wait seven years to start those?" 

Walter shook his head slightly. "I think it has been seven years, Alex. Think about it. We built the New Start." 

"Took us almost two years to build." 

"Then the one for Bellehumeur." 

"That one took a little over a year. We had a better idea of what we were doing." 

"Then the Cousins wanted something to fish with. Remember all the trouble we had getting that mast up. And then it got hit by lightning the second time they went out. Took us two more months to get that repaired." 

"And now we've almost done the one the Governor ordered. Another few weeks and it will be." Alex sounded stunned. "Shit! It _has been_ seven years." He cocked his head. His smile warmed certain parts of Walter's anatomy. "My, doesn't time fly by when you're having fun." 

Walter slipped his hand under the skirt Alex was wearing. "Yes, it does." 

Their kiss was gentle in spite of the pressure their hands were raising. 

"So, Monsieur Magritte," Walter's French was as fluent as Alex's. "Do you want to watch the rest of this interview, or might I interest you in a little something else?" 

"Eh bien, mon cher Monsieur Walcott, it does depend on what you're offering. Might it be something I would like?" Alex cocked his head, eyes laughing. 

"I think you will love it, cher ami." 

Alex's smile grew tender. "I know I will." 

Walter turned off the television and VCR. Alex pushed the switch Walter had set up in the house to turn off the generator. 

Then they went to bed. 

**##### NIF #####**

* * *

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